


Howl

by DemonQueen666



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bisexual Gaston (Disney), Curses, Dark Magic, Enemies to Friends, Ensemble Cast, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gaston (Disney) Lives, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Imprisonment, Loup-garou | Rougarou, M/M, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Poor Lefou (Disney), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, Superstition, War, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2018-11-13 13:33:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 158,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11186157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonQueen666/pseuds/DemonQueen666
Summary: The spell is broken but the wolves have not left the woods, because they are not merely wolves. A different kind of curse saves Gaston from his fall. But on the verge of becoming a new monster, has he finally succumbed too far to darkness…or will LeFou once more be willing and able to lead his oldest friend back from the brink?





	1. be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers

**Author's Note:**

> “If you could only see the beast you’ve made of me  
> I held it in but now it seems you’ve set it running free  
> screaming in the dark I howl when we’re apart  
> drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart
> 
> my fingers claw your skin try to tear my way in  
> you are the moon that breaks the night for which I have to howl”
> 
> \- florence + the machine, “howl”

The rose was gone. The curse had ended. It was over.

Light broke across the castle grounds. Light, and day, and warmth. Color reappearing, seeping back in to what previously resembled almost a ruined painting, grand architecture was restored to what it once was.

No longer a ruined, haunted-looking wreck. But a palace of regal beauty and wonder, surrounded by manicured grounds.

On the steps out front, the path leading in from the gates, there were crowds celebrating. Cheering. People restored just when they had lost hope. Families reunited, friends and loved ones. Lovers who had saved them all, with only eyes for each other now – a happy ending, truly earned.

And far from the sight of these people, away from the castle, outside its gates and walls - the woods were changing, for the curse had been broken there too.

The trees awoke. Grass and leaves turned green again. The scent of seasons shifting charged the air, as snow and ice started to melt.

The wolves appeared, creeping from their hiding place. Nervous and wary but drawn by the feel of sweeping change.

Of magic.

Their fur, matted in some spots, worn thin in others, stood on ends. Throats ready to growl or whimper they looked around with heads low and ears stiff. The pack, eight in all, glanced back and forth to one another.

As the change worked its way through the woods, curse lifting, it passed over them too. Eight wolves keened and blinked and shook their heads.

Their fur was no longer white as the enchanted snow had been. The ground beneath their paws turned to mud and the leaves above them regrew, and a pack of eerily-matched wolves gradually looked more natural as their pelts bled to shades of gray and black and brown and tan.

All except for their leader, with the scarred muzzle and missing eye. Its fur remained the same snowy white.

It had always been that color. Even – before.

Before the time of Enchantresses, of spells and curses. Before the years-long winter that trapped the entire woods. Before—

The leader tilted head toward the sky, and growled speculatively.

The other wolves walked close as they dared while the leader seemed to reach a decision. The rest of them were shivering. Waiting.

The melted snow ran from the branches overhead as heavy as rain. And the leader of the wolves gave a rumbling growl from deep within, braced its legs and started to change.

There was an unkindly, sickening sound. Like bones breaking backwards. Like flesh sliding beneath skin. In the already-dying light in the forest the wolf leader’s shadow twisted and danced.

And when it was done, a tall woman stood there in the wolf’s place.

Her clothes were tattered beneath an open cloak. Her long hair was blonde-white, almost silver. And her one good eye was – not human. Still the slanted amber-yellow color of the wolf.

She drew a breath, cracked lips parting. Caught dripping water in her palm and licked it, slow, as mind sluggishly came to thought.

“So,” her voice was low from disuse, “the curse has been broken, then.”

She turned in the direction of the castle.

“It is over. It is done.”

The pack looped around, bolder ones nudging her legs, all whimpering. Distractedly she touched them with the back of her hand, made a small soothing sound from her throat.

“Oh no, my children. Be calm. Soon you too will be able to take to your other form. First you must hunt once more, and find fresh prey. We all must regain our strength.”

She could see how starved they looked, legs seeming even longer for how skinny bodies had become beneath thick fur. She could feel it too, in her bones.

Her voice became resentful, sneering:

“It has been a long winter.”

Distantly she heard sounds coming on the wind, from the castle. Human sounds. And human smells. Beneath that though was the still lingering feel of magic.

“I wonder…I wonder if _she_ is still here.”

With clawed fingers she traced the scar that split the bridge of her nose and her cheek. She touched it curiously; she had never felt it before on her human face.

She pictured the one who’d given it to her. Remembered the bolt that struck her in the muzzle, as a condemning voice said, _“You and your pack will for a time run free no more.”_

It had said, “ _For so long as the curse remains and this forest lies in winter, you shall be a part of it. You shall guard this place, protect it from intruders._

_“And when the spell is lifted – if it ever is – perhaps, by then, you will have relearned to appreciate what it means to be…human.”_

The she-wolf snarled. Who was she, some interfering mystical being, to cast her down and treat her like this? To lecture _her?_

As if she knew what it meant to be what she was – the greater strength in their kind had nothing to do with being human, and everything to do with being _wolf._

She would gladly show that meddling witch a thing or two, if only she could get her claws on her. If only she could get her fangs in that beautiful glowing throat.

If she was still hanging about – revenge, she decided, would be _far_ more than simply eye for an eye.

Moving with purpose, head low, teeth bared, she strode in the direction of the castle. Her pack followed closely. She didn’t look back; they would always follow, wherever she went.

Reaching the wrought-iron gate at the rear to the grounds she paused, fingers curled between bars as she sniffed the air. That lingering magic was already fading – if the one who had done all this had been near when the spell broke, it seemed she was there no more.

Still, they had come this far. Shoving the gate open she pushed in, urging her pack forward in front of her, tails and ears high as they were on ready to sense any danger.

It was something else they found. With a few hopeful sounds, they looked back to their leader.

She smiled, knowing.

“Yes – I smell it too. Blood.”

Fresh death. Human. Hopefully large – her wolves were hungry.

Hunters though they were, but a wolf would never hesitate to eat carrion when they were starving.

“Go on then. Feed yourselves.” She nodded and that was all the sign they needed. The pack took off running.

She followed behind them, still smiling to herself.

The pack soon gathered around a spot near the base of a tower, outside the castle walls, a lonely place that no one would ever find by accident.

She felt no fear of being seen; the humans in their castle would be too busy celebrating. Most of them probably hadn’t come back inside yet, let alone would be looking down this far.

Her wolves yipped and snarled as they tore at the cloth that lay between them and their meal, scrapping with one another for who would get first bite.

Her own hunger was stilled by the low burn of anger. The toothsome desire for vengeance. She made to sit down nearby, and wait. Examine her claws until the wolves finished with their meal.

And then from the human body she heard a quiet groan.

She jerked to her feet, staring, eyes wide and the one that hadn’t been blinded gleaming. “Stop!”

The wolves pulled back in confusion but didn’t dare disobey. She rushed forward and threw herself atop what she had assumed was a dead man, pressed her ear to his chest.

Beneath the layers of rigid fabric, now even worse for wear on account of her “children’s” teeth, she could feel a fading warmth – and hear a _thrum-thrum-thrum_ from a beating heart.

“Still alive.” She marveled, pulling back to look overhead. The castle’s walls at this side loomed like the peaks of a mountain, seeming impenetrable. “You fell all this way, and yet you would live.”

For now, that was. The amount of blood on the ground was thick. She could tell by looking several major bones had been broken and with her hands she could feel even more.

But she grinned, for this held…so much promise.

“You must be _so strong_.”

He looked it, too. Massive for a human, tall, broadly built, all muscle, and if underneath lay the will of a fighter, the persistence and ability to survive – the possibilities formed so fast and sweet she could taste it on her tongue as with swift movements she tugged at his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, brushed aside the layers of his clothing.

“You will help me. With you, I will make my pack stronger. And we will rule over not only these woods but the surrounding lands: the village, this castle, everything.”

Her one eye gleamed with the hunger for blood and war and _power_. “It will all be mine.”

Crawling over him she leaned forward, sinking teeth hard into a now-bared left shoulder.

Her fangs remained sharp even in human form and she sat back leering through a mouthful of blood, triumphant.

_“Mine.”_

With a strong enough partner to back her own formidable power their pack would only grow, in numbers and in might. The humans would live in fear. They would learn to cower before the wolves.

Or they would die. Either way, the land would belong to her.

And that magical creature that had bound them here would rue the day she ever crossed with them.

The venom of her own curse once transferred went swift to work – these injuries, grave as they were, still were nothing. Long as there was life their bodies could heal; their kind were all but indestructible.

The body beneath hers shifted. She knew that beneath that human skin was forming the fur and sinew of a wolf.

It began.

She tilted her head back and howled, an impossible sound stolen from a human-seeming throat.

As one her pack lifted muzzles to the sky and howled too, joining her. Together they sang to the far overhead stars that were appearing in the dimming light.

It was to this sound that the eyes of the prone figure finally opened, flashing more yellow than amber.

And the she-wolf’s howl when it ended, far after the others, trailed off into a proud and manic laugh.

*

Time went on.

That was the thing about happily-ever-afters, Belle discovered, when you were actually living through them; at no point did things ever really _end_.

The castle seemed so much different now. Now that it was properly warm again, and full of color, and occupied, and well – _alive._

A very different sort of “alive” than it had been under the enchantment to be sure. But to her, now, no less lively.

There were people in the village who had once worked at the estate, who had come and gone frequently, or who had family that worked there that’d spent the last several years as cutlery and crockery. Now that everyone remembered it again, there was quite a bit of hustle and bustle. People settling again to a routine that had once been normal and felt strangely natural to resume for all it had been for so long forgotten.

The servants were surprisingly cheery to continue working at a place where they’d been long imprisoned under a curse. But maybe the castle had been their home for such time, they simply couldn’t imagine going anywhere else. Or maybe they were so happy to be freed, to be themselves again, they were overflowing with an abundance of charity.

Surely Belle found it had been surprisingly easy to forgive the people that had acted against her and her father. That had mocked her, or ignored her for years – that had marched on this very same castle and tried to have those dearest to her _killed_.

It hadn’t truly been their fault though, had it? They hadn’t known what they were doing.

And the one that perhaps had – well. Belle tried to never so much as think his name, could she help it.

That was over now. It was done. Yes; it was _done_.

An entire new piece to her life was beginning. One which she never dreamed of; one for which she could have never even begun to prepare.

Belle stood on a wide balcony overlooking the gardens, a single taper of a candle held in her hand. Not that she needed it. Far below the gardens were bright with ornamental lanterns, and small dangling glass orbs that were being carried around by obedient servants. People in beautiful suits and ballgowns stood and chatted to one another, fanning themselves in the warm autumn air. Music was playing from somewhere: sweet quiet melody of violin and harp. There were chilled drinks and small trays of finely prepared food.

Belle had been able to stand it for about an hour before she had fled, to the quiet and comfortable sanctity of the inner parts of the castle.

Now she stood where she was, up high, peering down at below as she shook her head with a strange smile.

When she had said once that she wanted a different life - well, this wasn’t quite what she had in mind.

“There she is.”

A familiar voice startled her out of her reverie, and Belle straightened up and turned to face him slowly.

Her husband stood there, bedecked in a fine blue suit that complimented his eyes, his fair hair expertly curled. He smiled at her with a gaze that somehow contained both gentleness and merriment.

“I had wondered where the loveliest woman available this evening had gotten off to.”

Belle felt the same slight familiar loving flush come to her face as he spoke to her.

They had been in such a hurry to be married, they’d rushed as much as humanly possible – the ceremony had been big enough anyway between the occupants of the village and the castle. All in all, they had only waited but a few weeks.

It had happened so suddenly though that now in the aftermath she was sometimes sent occasionally reeling. To think that she was _married_ , after all. To think that she had the rest of her life to spend with this charming, gorgeous man who adored her so completely. To think that now that she was his wife, she was…

A princess. Her. A _princess_.

Truly, it was almost too much.

And she had failed to say anything in reply. He tilted his head, and approached her. “You seem distracted. Did I interrupt you, my love? Some deep and pressing thought?”

Still gentle, still teasing. She could tell he would be as willing to listen to her speak on wherever her mind had been, be it books or poetry or some new invention. Belle smiled, and shook her head.

“No. Nothing at all, really.” She turned her body as he approached her, though she couldn’t resist a last glance down at the garden. “Mainly I was thinking-”

He interrupted her with a thoughtful sound, definitely more akin this time to ‘teasing’. “Hmm, how despite their fancy clothes, their added station in life, their cultured airs – people are no different, after all?”

She took in the way he moved his head, his cheery air masking obvious impatience, and she laughed.

“The people down there could not _be_ any more different from those I grew up with in Villeneuve,” she exclaimed. “But that doesn’t mean I find them any more interesting!”

“Oh, but they presume themselves to be far more enlightened, don’t they? Far more entertaining.” He huffed and rolled his eyes, then reached to brush her cheek. “I am sorry to have to subject you to them.”

“But of course, they needed to give attention to, gain favor from a man of such prestige as yourself, now that they remember you exist,” she said sardonically.

“And of course, it was crucial they come see for themselves my lovely new wife and flatter her, once they heard I was so suddenly married,” he returned, matching her tone.

Belle ducked her eyes, smiling in amusement. He reached to stroke her hair just behind her ear this time. He grew quieter.

“I would much rather hide you away, keep you all to myself, if I could have it,” he told her. “It doesn’t seem fair I have to share you with them.”

“You don’t miss it at all, then?” She raised her eyes to meet his, curiously. “Having it back again, your – your _life_ , your…power?” Her nose wrinkled; it wasn’t really the right word, she knew. “Your prestige, I suppose?”

He huffed again, dismissive. “Oh – what, all this? The parties, and the courtiers, and all _this_ …” He gestured to himself, to them both.

Belle for the first time in her life was wearing a proper gown with a proper corset, with layers of stiff petticoats that crinkled when she walked. Her hair was up and pinned with roses. Her shoes were utterly impractical. There were diamonds around her neck, small and delicate, and she’d no choice but to consent to the faintest amount of rouge on her lips and shadow on her lids and lashes.

She had seen herself in the looking glass on the way downstairs earlier, and though she had to admit she looked far from horrible – she did not look at all like _her._

She did not feel like herself, either. Not really.

He seemed to understand that, though, which she appreciated greatly.

“It was my life,” he continued, “for a long, long time. It was all I’d ever known. And certainly there are some things I missed greatly, given the…alternative.”

He gave that odd smile that she returned; the private joke, almost, that it’d become between them. Because really, what was there to say? _“I spent many years of my life cursed into the form of a beast”_? This was not something that outsiders would ever understand, and in a way she was glad for it.

It meant that there’d remain no matter what something that could be kept special between the two of them.

After the moment passed his expression changed again and he sighed, contemplative. “But for the longest time, this was all I had. The trappings. And I thought it was enough.”

He took her hand in a gentle squeeze. She looked down at her fingers resting within his – she still felt something every time, even at that simple sight.

“I know better now.” His other hand cupped her face and they gazed eye to eye. “Belle – I have you. The rest of it, all of it…it seems so empty to compare.”

“But it _is_ a part of your life,” she reminded him, softly. “You can’t cast it aside, any more than you can your lands and title.”

For that was the point, wasn’t it: the curse had been not only to teach him love, but compassion and responsibility. To make him not only a better man but a better ruler. One who cared for his people rather than turning a blind eye to their needs.

And that meant he needed, from time to time, to throw these parties. To write letters, and make official visits, and let lesser nobility come and be impressed by him.

And as his partner in life Belle had to be there for it as well. To share in his burdens as well as his blessings.

Of course she knew some young women would find the idea of dressing up and being waited on at garden parties long into the night to be a treat. Belle however much preferred the quiet, when she could have it.

She might grow accustomed to this finery in time; she supposed she’d have to. But she would probably never like it or be fully comfortable. Perhaps indeed she was at heart a-

Simple country girl.

_“For simple folk like us it doesn’t get any better- “_

The voice that spoke those words echoed in her mind so clearly; Belle swallowed a gasp. But something no doubt flashed across her face. Her husband registered it with alarm, and when her fingers twitched causing her to compulsively drop her candle he was there to catch it immediately.

“Belle? What’s wrong – you look as if you’ve had a fright.” He stared at her, concerned, cradling her cheek. “For a moment there, you looked pale!”

“It…it was nothing,” she lied. He frowned at her and his look only increased scrutiny; she shut her eyes, uncomfortable. “Truly.”

“That didn’t seem like nothing,” he noted softly.

Belle squeezed her eyes shut tight. It was hard to remind herself, sometimes, that – _he_ was dead. That they would never have to worry about him again.

She was relieved for that if she was not glad. It would be too morbid to revel in someone’s demise. Even if it had only been what he deserved, and had brought on himself by his actions.

The softest part of her could actually feel sorry for him – for what real joys in life could a man so twisted and bloodthirsty have ever known? It had been an ugly death for an ugly creature, one drop and everything over. Almost pitiful.

The rest of her though, hated that a month had passed – no, more than a month, now – and this could still on occasion happen. That she would be enjoying the happiness that her unwanted suitor had nearly cost her through his greedy, wicked ways…and unbidden he would creep, into her mind and her memory still, like a spiteful ghost. Ruining in death what he had been so eager to destroy in life. As if some part of him still existed and was out for revenge.

Sometimes she would speak of it to her husband, and he was a patient considerate ear every time. But she hated that she even had to do it. That he had to hear it. That she was wasting a single moment of her life, _their_ life, any of her energy on-

 _‘No, Gaston’_ , she grit her teeth and declared – the name burned like a searing poker in her mind but she let herself think it, just this once. ‘ _I would not let you make me your wife or your slave. From me you will have nothing, take nothing. I will not let you claim hold over even the smallest part of my life.’_

She caught her breath, slow, and opened her eyes again. More composed now as she met her husband’s anxious gaze.

“No,” she admitted, slowly. “It was not nothing. But I also don’t wish to talk about it.”

He nodded in response as he considered her words. “Then I will not press you. But you do know, if you ever did-”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” she reassured him with a smile, her hand to his cheek this time. “I’m sorry that I startled you.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” He returned her smile. “I’m only happy that you’re all right, now.”

For a moment they stood there, silently basking in one another’s company.

“Are you going to go back down?” she asked him, at length.

“Hmm? Oh…to the party.” He glanced behind her. “No, no; I don’t think so. It’s hard to tell perhaps but I think it’s winding down. They really don’t need me anymore.” He said wryly: “Just my servants, my garden and my champagne.”

“Poor you, so put-upon as host,” she teased. As if they both didn’t know perfectly well that Lumiere and Cogsworth had done all the work. And probably enjoyed it too.

Well, Lumiere had enjoyed it. Cogsworth had probably enjoyed fussing and feeling overwrought.

“I am positively worn out,” he said, deadpan. “I think I should retire to an early evening.”

He reached and took her hand once more, pausing significantly before going, “Would you care to join me?”

This time the flush that spread to her cheeks was more than subtle, knowing what he was asking.

Belle considered herself anything but a sheltered girl, but there were some things that all the books in the world could never prepare one for.

Tales of romance tended to end with a kiss. But her wedding night had taught her that there was – something more. Something much more.

Like the parties and the pageantry she was still in the process of growing used to it. The attention her husband paid her when they were alone, it could be overwhelming.

Unlike the unwanted finery however, this she could say without hesitation – she actually enjoyed.

Even if it did make her blush, just a little, to think about.

“I – yes,” she breathed, letting him take her by the hand, knowing she was acting uncharacteristically shy. “Lead the way.”

His smile, full of gratitude and subdued passion, bloomed wide across his face. He leaned in for a kiss, and spoke near to her face before he gave it.

“I love you, Belle.”

“I love you too…Adam,” she returned, closing her eyes to bask in his embrace.

 _“Beast, my Beast,”_ she called him sometimes in her heart, but never aloud. Not yet. She still wasn’t sure how he might react to it.

It didn’t matter what name he answered to though. Not so long as he was hers.

*

Time went on at the castle, and it went on at the village too. After all, it wasn’t like they were separated anymore – gone was the magic keeping them apart, so isolated they might as well have been different worlds. Families and a community reunited.

The good people of Villeneuve had a local ruler again. It was a bit strange, especially how they’d never been able to miss him in the first place. How thanks to their restored memories, they could easily forget they had ever forgotten, if they didn’t think about it very hard.

The villagers were good at not thinking about things very hard. They were simple folk, hardworking, who knew well their limits, their pains and their pleasures.

This business with curses and magic tended to be overwhelming to their delicate sensibilities. They went about their merry ways and tried not to pay it too much mind at all.

Most days they were fine, but sometimes they utterly failed. They were simple folk with simple pleasures, and gossip was absolutely one of them.

Nothing like a broken curse and a dramatic love story to produce a nearly unending slew of gossip.

Was their restored Prince really such a good man, and were they happy and lucky to have him back? Was it shocking he married a commoner, the daughter of the local eccentric at that? Was Belle putting on airs above her station, had she secretly been a fortune-hunter all along? Were their friends and family just the same after being freed from their enchantments, or were they changed in suspicious ways? Was it practical for people to stay on at the castle now or was it lunacy?

These were the questions they weighed and put opinions forth on, tongues wagging. It got them through the day.

Outside of that it was routine. The baker sold his baguettes and the headmaster scolded his students and the local women did their shopping and the farmers plowed their fields before wandering into town to relax with friends over a pint. One month went by, then two, and things were happy enough as people debated and chatted without any real emotion.

Except when it came to Gaston.

Much as some in the village would’ve liked to pretend he never existed, they couldn’t do that either. The man had been too much a presence in their lives, too much a part of the local scenery.

It would have been akin to carrying on in one’s house while ignoring a giant hole in the wall. They had to do something.

Some people, it seemed, were in a frightful hurry to board that hole shut.

There were those who were quick to say, clearly, Gaston had always been a villain, and they knew it all along. Oh, sure and certain, the rest of the town had been eating out of his hand, fooled by his good looks and his strength, finding him charming. But not _them_ , of course. There’d always been _something_ about that man, they determined, heads nodding and tongues clicking, that had been _off_.

And if the same people loudest and swiftest with these claims now had been once among his fiercest supporters – well. Maybe behind their backs, some of their neighbors muttered and rolled their eyes.

At the other end of the spectrum were those in denial. The men who’d wanted most to be like him, the women who’d adored him utterly. The ones who truly believed in “Gaston the War Hero”, the brightest star their little village ever birthed. But what about his great deeds, these people argued. What about the time he had done this, or that? What about his prowess with sword and bow, the way he had them cheering night after night at the tavern? It couldn’t _all_ have been a lie, could it?

So many in the village had made the same mistake, tricked by a fear of dark magic. Why should Gaston take more blame than they, just because he’d had the conviction to lead them, and wasn’t here now to explain himself? Surely if they could be forgiven for the near-miss so could he. One reckless decision didn’t make a man into a monster.

The triplets still wore full mourning garb. Their eyes had been red for the entire first week, after.

The more time passed though, the number of those in their camp dwindled.

Truth was the majority lay somewhere in the middle. Willing to be honest about their own bad choices, how they misread certain characters – but they spoke his name in mutters, scowling, bad taste permanently in their mouths.

They took no pleasure recalling how easily Gaston had swayed them on the night that’d proved his undoing. But they took less pleasure in recalling those years he’d lorded over them all, wined and dined by the village that basked in his glory.

These were the people with the simplest of hearts, perhaps; the frankest natures. The ones who, even before, had wished Gaston didn’t have to have the whole room clapping and cheering _every_ time he came into the tavern. The ones who wrinkled their noses when he snatched fruits and vegetables off carts in the marketplace without so much as a glance back, leaving his companions to hurriedly pay for them. The ones who scoffed in quiet indignation when he rode his horse down the street after it rained, spraying the passerby with mud. The ones who noticed he could sometimes be too loud, too mean, too boastful, too rude – even though they accepted it, sighing inwardly, as a part of what made him Gaston.

Now they couldn’t help but wish _somebody_ might have said something, out loud, much sooner. And they each accepted their small, silent share of guilt that “somebody” had not been themselves.

They had painted over the massive triptych of him in the tavern. Tancred and Peg had stopped from covering up the coat of arms behind their bar, though. They said it would be dishonest to remove everything. Though perhaps it was simply easier to leave the parts that didn’t have his face.

What had been Gaston’s favorite chair still sat by the fire. After about three weeks people had stopped avoiding it like it was cursed.

Pere Robert had never read his name aloud with the recitation of those passed made at the end of mass on Sunday. For the first two weeks when they hadn’t found a body there’d still been hope – or if “hope” was the wrong word for it, there had been something. By the time a month went by and everyone knew in their hearts for sure, it felt like it was too late to say; now it would be awkward. But solemnly the chaplain added the name to the village dead in the official record he kept inside the church. There never was a funeral.

Time went by, and his name was said less and less. When it was there might be sneers or sobs, but mostly there were weighty exhales and grimaces, heads shaking. It was hard to know what to do with the tarnished legacy of a man who died an attempted murderer.

It was hardest of all, perhaps, for them to know how to feel every time their eyes landed on Monsieur LeFou.

It was an interesting time to be LeFou. He should have been in trouble, maybe, since some vicious people were looking so hard for a place to land their blame: he had always been Gaston’s shadow.

But shadows never absorbed any of the blame for their owner’s crimes, did they; they merely faded away, out of sight, forgotten. Fittingly the ones that were hardest on Gaston’s memory seemed to have forgotten LeFou entirely.

Everyone else mainly acted sorry for him. They spoke a little more quietly when he was around, addressing him as if he were a man on his sickbed. They watched him from the corner of their eyes when he walked past, and to one another they whispered.

The better people tried to smile sympathetically when they met his gaze, tilting heads in that strangely distinct way one silently acknowledges a human being in mourning. They’d try to make sure he was eating. One of the village wives offered to do his laundry, if he was too distracted to take care of it himself. They’d pat him on the shoulder or grasp his hand, and ask with sincerity how he was feeling.

Every time LeFou would say _“I’m fine, merci beaucoup – I’m fine, I’m fine, thank you for asking”._

Every time he was lying.

He was angry and he was sad and he was – so overwhelmed and confused, frankly, by the notion that he could still be living.

It was pathetic, he knew, but facts were facts: he’d built his life so solidly around Gaston he had at some point as good as become the other man’s appendage. And arms and legs didn’t keep living after the person they were attached to died. Why had he?

Why was he alive, when Gaston was dead? It didn’t seem possible. He’d forgotten that atop everything he was, Gaston was a man, and he could die like anyone.

Well, no: not like _anyone_. Of course Gaston had to go out with an abundance of drama. Even in his downfall he was impossible to ignore, darkly glorious. Even in his end, he was still Gaston.

 _“No one loses his mind like Gaston”_ , however, LeFou found did not scan so well. And no words he knew rhymed with _“betrayal”._

Every time he thought Gaston’s name - far more often, he was sure, than anyone else - he wanted to cry, curse, and maybe throw up.

The problem, he had determined, was he was in mourning in more way than one. Not just for the death of one man, but for the death of a friendship that lasted almost long as he’d been breathing.

LeFou found it incredibly inconvenient Gaston had waited until the last possible second. He’d had to go and behave like that, cruel and selfish and destructive, in less than a week before he died? It was – inconsiderate, that was what. LeFou felt offended on a personal level, because how was he supposed to handle this? It was a lot to throw at a person at once.

That or the alternative was Gaston had been that way the whole time, and LeFou was an idiot, good as blind, life wasted idolizing someone so genuinely awful they hardly counted as a person. That all those times he’d excused neglect or short-temperedness as “ _he doesn’t mean it, he’s just tired, he has a funny way of showing that he cares”_ , what he’d really been doing was excusing something far more sinister, more rotten.

That possibility did not make his life any easier. It certainly didn’t cure the sick hole in the pit of his stomach.

He turned over the moments, replayed the memories, feeling like he was flipping stones in the garden, bracing himself for the slimy dark things he found underneath.

He hated the things that seemed so much worse in hindsight. But too he hated he could look back and still feel happy, still consider what they had “the good times” – remembering he had been happy now only made his heart throb and hurt.

And he hated the last time he and Gaston had spoken was literally _the last time_.  It was a terrible note to end on, for any sense of closure. If Gaston hadn’t died at least he could have gone to him and ended their friendship properly, telling him off and yelling in his face. Or maybe Gaston would have apologized, and LeFou could have forgiven him. He would never know, now.

Though he doubted it would’ve happened the second way. Gaston never apologized for anything: not once, that LeFou could recall, in his entire life.

What LeFou undoubtedly hated the most, though – even after everything, the violence and anger and the fear and threats and abandonment, he thought of Gaston and knew he still was in love with him. Even after years of never expecting to be loved in return. Even now, when he was dead.

LeFou loved him, still. And that made him angriest and saddest and sickest of all.

But there was nothing he could do. Gaston was dead, and LeFou was alive. By the most extreme of forces, they finally had been parted.

His world was quiet, now, his routine so empty. Gaston had been a whirlwind of boisterous energy, a booming laugh, a swaggering stride, an unending need for action. LeFou was forever dragged along in his wake, either following Gaston’s lead or coming up with ways to entertain him. And now, now he was…adrift. Purposeless.

Some days he would picture that grin, feel that warm grip squeeze the back of his neck, and it would be like he’d been kicked in the stomach.

Some days he thought he would rather die himself than be around people, the familiar sights of the village. Some days he didn’t even want to get out of bed.

LeFou however was ultimately more practical than he was poetic – and he knew it didn’t matter how long he hid away. The sadness, anger and bittersweet happiness would still be there. All that would change was he would go hungry and his clothes would go unwashed, his little vegetable garden untended and he wouldn’t earn any coins from the usual odd jobs around town. And that was no good.

So he got up, and he went about life best he could. He tried to find ways to fill the days, the hours, the minutes. He exchanged pleasantries with other people and shared a meal with them if they offered and sometimes, sometimes when he laughed, it wasn’t even forced.

It felt surreal that it’d been nearly two months since he’d gone hunting, since he had been anywhere near the woods. His pockets seemed too heavy, thanks to the rounds he hadn’t had to cover at the tavern, the minstrels he hadn’t to pay for their cheery reels and war songs. He could chat longer with the florist and the potter in the mornings, and stay for a whole conversation with Tom, Dick and Stanley, now that his time wasn’t being monopolized by…someone else.

He could hear Gaston’s voice in his head and remember his face, sometimes too clearly, like he was being haunted. But he would never see him again, not really. He would never talk to him again.

Sometimes it didn’t even hurt so much to think as it felt so incredibly _unreal_. At first _“Gaston is dead”_ was the only thing he could think about, but the more time passed, he could swear there were moments when he almost forgot.

There were days when it didn’t feel any better, at all. But then there were days when it did.

Time went on. And all LeFou could do was keep going, and imagine that maybe someday he would remember how to be truly happy.

Until then, though, it made no difference what he did: either way, time still went on.

*

Magic had more rules to it than many seemed to realize.

It was never simple as doing _anything_. As whatever one wanted. There were patterns to be followed, a sense of order to be worked within.

It was technically possible to try and go around, of course, work outside of the rules. But that came with…consequences. Magic was a tricky thing. It had as much will of its own as any living creature. Someone with less caution, perhaps, someone less responsible might not realize or might not care.

The Enchantress, however, had a strong sense of responsibility.

The Enchantress was many things. She was powerful and she was very old, she’d been at this for quite some time. Longer than many realized.

Or perhaps not. Who knew what people thought of after they’d interacted with the Enchantress. They usually were not interested in asking questions about what she was or where she came from. Curiosity was not the emotion most had after meeting her or seeing her magic firsthand.

Far more often they felt a deep and abiding sense of fear.

The Enchantress had answered to many names over time. Currently she was Agathe. She had been Agathe for several years.

It was as good a name as any. She didn’t mind being Agathe. There was no less reason for her to be Agathe than for her to be anybody else.

She had been Agathe for long enough that Agathe had settled in her, seeping down past the surface to her core. She felt Agathe’s old bones and her tired skin, her calloused hands and her often hungry belly, her mind full of herblore and her feet that fit perfectly into well-worn shoes, and at times she could almost forget she had ever been anything else.

Forgetting was easy, for mortals, and she’d been playing at being mortal now for so long as she had been playing at being Agathe. Forgetting was as easy as never asking questions. It was as easy as never wondering _why._

People in a small village were especially good at that. Things that stood out in a certain manner were too different, sniffed at and suspicious, but other things? They fit right in.

When the curse had been cast that covered the nearby castle, their little town and the woods in between, no one noticed when around the same time an old woman appeared, a spinster who made her living by selling herbs and begging for coins, who wandered in and out of the village, never truly belonging yet never quite apart.

No one asked where Agathe came from. No one seemed to find her presence in the village odd. If they thought about it they might have assumed she’d always been there, that she was in born in the village or somewhere nearby.

They made a lot of assumptions about Agathe without realizing they even thought of her. Had she appeared after the last war, perhaps, yet another vagrant who was created or displaced? Hadn’t she maybe had a husband who died years ago, so long nobody remembered his name or his face? Had she had a child she lost, or a sister who ran away, or a father who drank away her inheritance and with it any chance she might marry well or even at all?

These are things people might have wondered aloud – if anyone ever wondered about a person such as Agathe.

Nobody ever did. Certainly not in a little village such as Villeneuve.

It suited her purpose perfectly, to be Agathe in Villeneuve. Unremarked upon and unacknowledged, free to come and go as she pleased. People were honest to beggars, those that could do nothing to do them. They felt free to show the kindness or ugliness that sat within their hearts.

Agathe had seen much that was ugly, in her years in Villeneuve.

But she had seen a lot of kindness too. The way the villagers took care of and looked after each other, banding together for the good of the community in difficult times. They were one extended family in a way. Everyone was connected somehow. Everyone knew everyone’s business and perhaps they’d one opinion too many on it, but their memories were longer for favors than they were for slights. One day a man might rail against his neighbor as if he were the worst most useless man to ever walk the earth yet he’d extend a hand to offer whatever was needed if that same neighbor had troubles next week.

They were simple people, earthy and stubborn and set in their ways. Difficult nuts for any outsider to crack. But their hearts were ultimately good.

And in a way, she realized, she was going to miss them as she left this all behind.

There was no helping it however. The curse was broken, the time was passed for her to be here. It was time to stop being Agathe and move on.

Wander the path she was led by the whispering wind and find another place in France, or further on, that had need of her.

After the spell lifted Agathe walked on foot the long way back from the castle to her little home in the woods. No one, she assumed, noticed her leave and they were too busy celebrating to wonder where she’d gone.

It would be weeks, probably, at the least, before anyone thought of old Agathe the herbwoman and realized they hadn’t seen her around.

But as she sat on one of the dead logs she used for furniture and began gathering some things, absently glancing around the clearing, she realized that she felt…something.

For a moment she sat still as she tried to piece it out.

She looked around out of habit but there was no one watching. Holding out a hand she called a burst of fire to spark to life in the kindling she’d already stacked nearby. The flames rose easily, creating a small bed of dancing flame in her cooking pit.

She stretched her hand over it and let her gaze drift until it became unfocused, using the flames to concentrate.

Golden sparks drifted upward lazily adhering themselves to her skin. Sinking in. Agathe’s eyes widened and she drew her arm back, turning it over as she watched the golden shine disappear.

“The magic is still here,” she whispered aloud, at last understanding. “The ritual is not yet…finished.”

But how? She had been there. The spell ended, with all the drama and players necessary for such a thing to be complete. She had seen it with her own eyes. The circle should be closed.

But it was not closed. She could feel it, now. The magic lingered, not powerful but _present_ , like the scent of oncoming rain in the air. It was nothing so strong as the curse itself before it’d been broken, but it was incredibly troubling the energy hadn’t dissipated.

She could not in good conscience leave, now. Not until this was over.

Whatever “this” was. That was the part worrying her the most. This was going now in a way she could no longer predict, and probably not control.

Agathe sat up and turned to peer off into the deeper part of the woods, and for a moment more of the Enchantress showed through in her face.

Somewhere out there was something, some creature or being, that had shifted the tide. And until they were discovered and taken care of, the spell and the story of its making would not fully end.

“Who are you?” Agathe whispered, trying to think. “What are you doing? What do you want?”

She had a keen insight whatever the answers to these questions were, they would be nothing good.

*

The distance between Villeneuve and the castle of the Prince wasn’t far, if one knew the way. Still it was best to travel on horseback or by cart. It was a tiring walk otherwise, through a winding forest path that wasn’t always clear where it cut through the trees.

People left the castle to purchase supplies, or visit family members. Villagers came to the castle when there was a party or occasionally to beg a favor.

Honestly despite the relatively short distance between locations, the fact they belonged to the same community, even after the curse had been broken people did not make this journey over-often if they could avoid it. It was tiring, and arduous – and potentially unsafe.

There were things lurking out there in the darkness, they said. Animals, or who knew – possibly worse.

But people loved to tell each other scary stories, didn’t they? Even when they’d just gotten through living one.

It was warm in the woods. It had been warm for two months now, as if the land was trying to make up for lost time, those years it remained trapped in winter. Even the onset of autumn did nothing to cut through the heat. In the deepest parts of the forest the air felt thick, muggy, the shadows cloying like they would swallow up any unfortunate lost there and never let them out again.

Animals freely wandered once more. Streams flowed and birds sang and there was the occasional rustle of the wind. The trees were lush and the grass was green and sweet.

And for the past two months, the woods had belonged to the wolves.

Where the forest was deepest far away from any hint of civilization they ran free, and everything they touched was theirs. They ran – they ran and they ran and they ran. The moon rose and under the dark of night they hunted and fed, howling low to one another, voices echoing in their eerie song. During the day they slept, or they kept moving, walking resolutely up and down the hills.

Always they stayed close together. They were pack.

They were nine, now. Wherever they went they followed the will of their leader, the white she-wolf with one gleaming eye. Close by her side she always kept the newest of their number, the big black wolf.

The black wolf sometimes made to wander away, drawn by unfamiliar smells and sights. The she-wolf had him back in line with a snarl, even a silent snap of her jaws. She ruled her pack without hesitance and the black wolf found it was naturally easy to obey. They were creatures of instinct, the wolves were; not so much thought.

The black wolf ran. He ran and he ran – crossing the woods easily on long legs, dirt thudding beneath his paws. The forest was alive with scent and sound, and full of prey. And he was a hunter.

He had always been a hunter, even-

Even…what? When-

_He remembered falling. He remembered pain. There had been a sound, then. A strange sound. And then he…he…_

Run run run. No time for thought. Hunting. Chasing. Biting.

Together the pack could circle and bring down any animal, even a deer, even a mighty stag. Teeth sank into skin, snapped bones and tore through fur.

They howled to one another and then they would feast.

Meat and dirt and blood and dark and cold air on his snout, fur streaming past his eyes, heart pounding and lungs working gladly as he would run.

He was fast and he was strong and had there ever been anything better than this? Simple, primal, life without thought, only action.

He hunted and he fought and he killed and he ate when he was hungry, gorging on whatever was available. He slept when he was tired, curled up on the ground, nose to tail, surrounded by the furry bodies of his kin. Sometimes with the pack he tussled out of boredom, nipping at each other’s ears and tails. Sometimes the she-wolf nudged him off alone, and then they had their fun.

Simple, simple, simple. Powerful and self-sufficient and free.

There was no cause to wonder, there was no cause to worry. He was a wolf, he-

Had he always been a wolf?

_There had been a castle. There had been a village. There had been a war, long before that. There had been a dozen, a hundred voices all shouting his name._

It felt like he had a fever. Everything was a haze. Being a wolf was sight and smell and sound, run run run, hunt or hide, red and black. It was hard to think. It was so hard to remember.

He no longer remembered what day it was. Time was a blur. How long had it been? The woods swallowed them whole. Nothing existed but from one end of the forest to the other. Stretching on in every sense of eternity. Their territory. Their world.

They were wolves. They hunted and they ate and they slept and they mated and they ran.

Why couldn’t he shake the idea something was missing? That it wasn’t supposed to be this way?

Nothing felt real. It was all a daydream. Much easier to give in.

Be the wolf. Run and run and run. Don’t think. Don’t worry or wonder or remember. Be the wolf, nothing more.

Nothing more. There was nothing more.

Not for him, anyway. The black wolf was new and he was still lost, running all on his instincts.

The she-wolf was different. She was always watching, thinking. She was always sharp.

It was the middle of the afternoon, an overcast day, when the pack came across the wagon. Loaded up with goods, some travelers probably. A family trying to relocate, displaced by illness or famine or raiders, or half a dozen other things. There were no humans around now though – the wagon lay abandoned, fallen on the wheel that’d broken where it got stuck in a rut.

The she-wolf went closer to investigate and her pack automatically stopped. While they milled about, waiting, restless, she explored – the change swept over her easier now, muscles rippling like she was working out a kink in her spine.

Gripping the edge with both hands she peered in the back, curiously, sniffing.

When she turned back to face the wolves she wore a mean grin.

“That’s what they get for leaving the road, I guess. Wonder whatever happened to them.”

The trail had long gone cold and there was no sign. All that could be certain was these wolves hadn’t found them – surely, they would remember that. It had been so long since any of them had seen humans.

“Whoever they were, they aren’t coming back.”

She walked away from the wagon, indifferent, raising voice to address them. As she spoke she peeled off her hooded coat and tossed it aside, revealing the hunting boots, trousers and bodice she wore with no chemise underneath.

Her forearms were muscled, but white. She always seemed like a supernatural creature even in her human form. Her fingernails were claws, her eye yellow – fangs flashed when she spoke.

“We’ll stop here. Make our camp tonight in this clearing. It’s as good a place as any. Take what you want from the wagon. If there’s anything.”

She walked off without glancing back.

In her wake, there was a tense pause, as if they were uncertain what to do next. And then as one, they too began to change, the remaining eight of them.

It was not as easy for them as it’d been for their leader. Their mouths moved in silent moans, bodies writhing as they struggled. As if the wolf-shape trapped them and didn’t want to give them up without a fight. As if they didn’t really want to change, and were only doing it reluctantly.

The eight of them stood on two legs now, stretched and yawned, blinked and looked around confusedly.

One of them was tall, dark-skinned, his hair in long dreadlocks. He glanced to the side and walked away further into the trees, the opposite direction taken by the she-wolf.

Three of the females looked at each other – a redhead, a brunette, a blonde – and by some speechless consensus chose to go closer to the wagon. The man with long brown hair he wore wild, no shirt underneath his greasy coat, followed behind them.

The slightest man, with the close-cropped uneven hair, hunched down and looked around nervously. Not seeming to know what to do with himself.

The final female, the skinniest and almost smallest of the group, hair hanging in her dark amber eyes, clothes little more than rags, watched the progress of the others without expression. She waited silently by the base of the nearest big tree.

And last there was the big black wolf, or what had been the big black wolf.

His hair was lank and unwashed, strands escaping his ponytail, and there was thick stubble on his face. His clothes were in disarray, wrinkled and crooked, coat unfastened. The long red jacket had bad tears to both arms and a gash ripped in one side, one sleeve practically hanging by a broken seam. He had that sallow look vagrants often get after too many nights outdoors. Like a man who’d gone camping in the woods for an extended period and in the process forgotten how to be around civilization.

Gaston blinked slowly, shook his head hard, feeling like he’d awoken from a lengthy dream.

He could feel the pack nearby, almost without looking at them. But he needed to get away. He felt like he needed _fresh air_ , which was funny considering he was nowhere but outside.

Still. He felt like he needed it.

When he cocked his head, off in the distance he could hear a stream running. Slowly at first, for his legs felt stiff, knees not wanting to bend right, he went in that direction.

By the time he finished walking the worst of the fog was gone from his head and his body was moving again. The pack and the wagon were completely out of sight, clearing lost behind the trees.

His throat and mouth were so dry it was almost painful. There was a sour hollow taste he couldn’t get rid of, like he had been literally eating dirt.

The stream turned out to be more like a river, more than twice as wide across as he was tall; but shallow in parts, rushing downhill over a rocky bed. He knelt at the edge and scooped up water with both hands.

Despite the heat the river ran cold, icy, and it was just what he needed. He drank until that taste was gone from his mouth, until his throat was working properly, until his belly was full. With a satisfied exhale he wiped off his lips with the back of his hand, and glanced down at the surface of the water.

Shallow as it was, with moving current, the surface of the river was far from perfectly reflective. Creature of habit he was though, Gaston always sought out any way he could get a look at himself.

He pulled a face at what he saw. He had felt fine enough in his other form but it seemed the lengthy change hadn’t entirely agreed with him. Maybe he should have-

Should have what? Like there was option other than this? This was how they lived, they, he-

Thoughts trailing off discordantly, unable to form anything solid, he frowned as he looked at himself. He ran fingers over his facial hair trying to make it smooth. He splashed water on his face, then unbound his hair, fixing it best he could with no proper mirror to see by.

He tried to remember what he’d been doing, before it came to this. That dark night. The castle. The Beast. Belle. His gun firing. The bridge giving way under him, and then-

A consuming darkness that made him shudder even if he could recall no specifics. A spot on his left shoulder tingled hard.

There was somebody behind him, now.

He glanced back, met the eyes of another of the pack. The one as tall as Gaston, the first to walk away.

His eyes were pale grey, flint-like, wolf eyes even in human form. He crouched some distance away, silent and still. There was something strange about watching a big man move so quietly.

He nodded in greeting. Gaston nodded back. He wondered what brought the other this way. He didn’t seem interested in the river.

“What regiment were you in?” There was a slight lilt to his French. Like he came from somewhere far away from Villeneuve originally. Somewhere north, from the sound of it.

The question, out of nowhere, was unexpected. “What?” Gaston thoughtlessly replied.

“What regiment were you in – Captain?”

The war, he meant the war. He wasn’t sure at first how he could know Gaston was a soldier.

He would’ve mentioned it if they’d ever spoke. Hadn’t they, at one point or another? He was sure it must have happened though he had no actual memory.

It been…weeks, months? At some point they must’ve gone around, introduced each other, even if he couldn’t remember it happening. All he could remember was running in the woods together, knowing each other in the dark by scent, trusting each other the way animals did, working together to run their prey down and corner it and tear out its throat-

 _Marcus_ , the name abruptly stuttered into being in Gaston’s mind. The man he was talking to, his name was Marcus.

If it bothered him Gaston had taken so long to answer he didn’t show it. He didn’t even blink.

“I was with the 124th, out of Lagnes. One of the few volunteers from Villeneuve.” Gaston grinned, persona he slipped into with his wartime tales coming to the surface. “Too many of the local boys were scared. They’d heard stories about what the Portuguese were up to in the south. But I was never scared. I was eager for my chance to see battle.”

There might not have been another war in his lifetime, and what then? He would’ve missed the opportunity for glory. He couldn’t risk that.

Marcus nodded. “I was in the 79th, out of Mayenne.”

“The 79th? That sounds…familiar.” Absently he finished with his hair. Using some water he tried slicking back the front. “Infantry, I assume?”

“ _Oui.”_

“Maybe we crossed paths, then. Let’s see. We fought at Aix-en-Provence and, erm, Nimes, after that we were stationed near Cahors, I think, before that skirmish around Montauban, and then there was Tarbes-”

“Ah.” The one syllable was imbued with meaning. Marcus was smiling in a strange way. “Tarbes. Yes, I was at Tarbes.”

Gaston brightened. “Splendid! That was quite the battle, wasn’t it?” Despite the distance between them he leaned forward with hands on his legs, eager to recall.

“It certainly was.”

“I’ll never forget that night. What a time to be alive. The way those cannons echoed.” He let out a sound of satisfaction, shaking his head as he savored the grand old times. “I made sure we were right near the center as that second wave swept the hill, of course.”

Marcus looked no less calm than before as he said, “We were in the first wave.”

Gaston’s grin fell right off his face.

“The…first?”

Marcus nodded, expression even.

It was rare for Gaston to spare much thought for the soldiers that fell where he had not. Tarbes, however, had been something unique.

He swallowed a reflexive twist of horror.

“Then, your regiment-”

He thought Marcus might look away before he answered. But he didn’t.

“I was the only one who survived.”

He cleared his throat awkwardly, letting silence hang a moment longer than he should. “I am…so sorry.” Marcus only nodded, acknowledging the words. A pause as he tried to think what else he could possibly say. “But then, that was right near the end of the war, so-”

“They sent me home after that. Not much point in keeping one man around, trying to add me to another company elsewhere.”

Silently Gaston thought that “man” might have been generous: Marcus was the same age as him, he was sure, which meant he couldn’t have been much more than seventeen at Tarbes.

A youth who’d just watched his entire regiment, those he marched and fought and lived with for months, be slaughtered around him in the mud.

Gaston forced a smile, looking on the bright side: “Well you got home, then, to a hero’s welcome! Some of my best times were in the days immediately after the war. I’m sure the people of your own hometown-”

“The last thing anyone wanted to do was celebrate the war. You said you were one of few volunteers, where you lived. Not so for me. My entire regiment was from the same village. They were my neighbors. My friends. Boys I played with, once, and walked together with to school.”

Gaston was experiencing a very odd thing for him: he was speechless.

It was a horrible feeling, especially considering what all that Marcus had to say. That he could find no good way to stop him.

“The war made too many in my town widows and orphans. It deprived them of hands to work the fields, just when they needed them the most. Everyone was in mourning for a son, a brother, a sweetheart, a friend.”

Marcus did not sound resentful. He was solemn. Still evenly calm. Quiet as he spoke.

“When they looked at me, they saw the faces of the ones who didn’t make it back. No one wanted much of anything to do with me.”

He shifted, gray eyes distant.

“None of my family was alive by then. I had no one to go home to. No one to talk to. At night I couldn’t sleep. I remembered Tarbes. Heard the yells of the others around me as they died and I lay there, unable to move. I could smell the mud and the gunpowder, hear the cannons firing over and over.”

He swayed in place a little as he spoke. As if the memories were taking him over then and there.

“I couldn’t find work. I had no place to live soon. I drank. When I could find the coins. It made those sounds in my head, the voices and the colors, go dull. Before long I spent more on drink than on food.”

Gaston sat there feeling incredibly uncomfortable. He’d heard tell of men who came back from war broken, of course. But he’d never met one in person.

And it’d never occurred the same war he fought in could do _this._ Not when for him it’d gone so well.

“Somehow, a year went by. Then two. Then four. One cold night…I wandered to the edges of town, wound up going the wrong way. I stumbled into the woods. I kept walking, as it got colder, until I fell down. Who knows what would have happened. Except the wolves found me.”

There was a poignant pause. Marcus shrugged.

“I have been in the woods ever since. Wherever our pack has roamed.”

“You’ve…” Gaston had to swallow before he could speak. Somehow his throat was dry again. “You’ve _never_ gone back to civilization? Not even once?”

“No.”

That seemed to be answer enough for Marcus until he realized Gaston was still staring at him.

His expression was so empty. It wasn’t calmness, Gaston realized at last – it was indifference. Like he cared for nothing.

“It’s quiet, out here,” Marcus said softly. “I almost never hear the cannons anymore.”

Gaston watched him, feeling exasperated and bewildered. Why in God’s name had Marcus told him all this? He didn’t seem to want anything from him. Certainly not sympathy.

But maybe that was just it – he was only sharing the story to share it. Two former soldiers bonding over battle scars. Reminiscing of where they’d been, because no one else would ever understand.

Well, Gaston knew what it was like to live through battle – but he liked not to remember it _that_ way. He much preferred tales of victory and glory, with the boring and unsavory bits cut out.

Stories with mention of fear and tension and too much blood weren’t as pleasing to an audience. What was the point of having war stories if he couldn’t use them to impress the villagers and make himself look good?

Now that Marcus had gone and set the mood this way though, he could hardly talk about the war the way he normally did. Gaston looked down, wiping hands on his trousers, grunting in annoyance.

Finally he said something that he never would have back in Villeneuve:

“Well…the war was a long time ago. Wasn’t it.”

Marcus’ expression still didn’t change, but he held Gaston’s eyes in a way that was meaningful.

“So some people say,” he replied.

And as quietly as he came, he got to his feet and left.

It seemed too silent in his wake. Gaston looked at the stream, watching the current go by as he fidgeted by rubbing at his mouth.

Eventually he stood and returned the direction from which he came. Following the scent of the pack.

No one spoke as he approached. No one was speaking to each other, either. As he stood at the edge of the clearing far from the felled wagon he lingered, observing them.

The three women had pulled some trunks out, had them splayed open carelessly on the ground. They were rifling through the things inside, wrinkling their noses and exchanging contemplative looks over articles of clothing.

The blonde draped gauzy fabric over herself and danced slowly in a circle for the other two, shaking her ample hips in exaggerated fashion, swaying her arms. The redhead and the brunette snorted with approving laughter.

The roughest-looking man was still at the wagon. He’d found a bag of money and held up one of the coins between his fingers, smirking with some private amusement. Casting it aside he soon found a flask – pulled a face as he sniffed the contents, but pocketed it anyway.

The scrawny man with the shorn hair snatched up what must have been an incredibly stale loaf of bread. He scurried away again, shooting glances at the others. He sat hunched on the ground as he started to eat, holding the bread close to himself, posture wary.

And the last woman, the skinniest one with the amber eyes, hadn’t moved from her position by the tree.

There was no sign of Marcus.

Gaston had a strange feeling as he watched. There was something perpetually inhuman about them, their lean and dirty faces, their purposeful motions and intense eyes. More than that, though: he’d barely spoken to these people, and yet, he felt like he knew them. Because of their time as wolves he felt close to them almost as if they’d been together for a lifetime.

Yet they were still strangers. He could remember so little about them…the more he tried to recall anything the blurrier and unfocused his memories became.

What were their names? Surely he knew that much. The three women, they were Nathalie, Rochelle and Gracie, though he couldn’t remember which was which. They were always together anyway. The man who looked like a convict, his name was Edgar. The other man, the skinny scared one, he was Jean-Paul.

And that last one, over there by the tree. Her name was…

It slipped away from him as abruptly the she-wolf reappeared.

She stepped out of the forest, coming wordlessly from among the shadows of the trees. She didn’t appear to see Gaston but he felt incapable of looking away from her – not the same idle attraction which he’d felt towards so many women but something more poignant and unsettling. It fixed him in place even as he felt a distant impulse to run.

The scar on his left shoulder tingled again.

The she-wolf approached the much smaller woman alone, who stood and gazed directly up at her.

“Aveline,” the leader demanded, “where is my mate?”

The other didn’t blink or flinch but offered no challenge either. “I don’t know,” she said dully.

The she-wolf frowned and twisted away from her, and as she turned she finally noticed Gaston. Her yellow eye lit up, her entire expression changed.

“There you are, my pet.”

She strode towards him and Gaston could do nothing to pull away. Not that he wanted to – did he? If she wasn’t precisely gorgeous she was far from ugly either. The kind of woman who seemed aware of her own looks even if she did nothing to take care of them.

Her long hair was wild and windblown, her body lean muscle beneath white skin, the scar splitting her face at an angle like a lightning bolt. When her mouth opened, he could see fangs.

She always looked a little angry. Or hungry.

 _Arethe,_ he was able to recall. Her name was Arethe.

She was grinning as she came to him. Wrapped her fingers around the back of his neck, the other hand petting his chest as she leaned into him, pressing together at their hips.

He stifled a grunt as automatically he leaned forward as well and returned the embrace. Honestly not sure which instinct he was responding on: that of the man or the wolf.

“Where did you wander off to,” she crooned. “I was looking for you.”

Of course she was. She never really let him out of sight.

She ran a clawed hand down the side of his face and smirked when he bent heatedly into the touch.

Arethe shot a look at the others, over her shoulder. “Go away,” she ordered. “Take a walk and come back later.”

That was all she needed to say. Wordlessly, without any looks of reproach, the rest of the pack dropped what they were doing and left. Most shifted to wolves again as they scampered out of the clearing.

Arethe was leering as she looked back to Gaston again, and her voice was low and rough.

“Some things are admittedly more pleasurable in human form. Aren’t they?”

She stepped forward, backing him towards the wagon as she tugged at the front of his clothing. He held onto her hips as their mouths worked in direction of one another’s, teeth and lips clashing.

Arethe was almost tall as he was, still she was grasping at his throat, dragging him down to her. Her ran his hands over her shoulders, the small of her back, as he felt for the straps of her bodice.

How many times had he done something like this behind a tavern or a barn, in a smoky room within a brothel? His motions were driven by the fever of lust but also ingrained habits, instinct. He didn’t desire this so much as it felt good to his body and he could think of no reason to stop.

Women didn’t normally touch him the way Arethe did. There was nothing coy about her. Even the most confident wench he’d bedded was overwhelmed by his aggressive nature. But this one, she had him beat. She wasn’t just confident – she was dominating. With no hesitation, possessive.

It was unnerving. Though not enough to make him stop. More like a ripple of unease that couldn’t disturb the surface – what part of Gaston still capable of thinking was buried deep, now.

The small reprieve he’d found earlier after he changed back to a man already faded. The wolf was in control once more, returning to the disconnected haze. Following the will of his pack leader, giving in to primal impulse.

It was an easier way to live. Very little in him wanted to resist.

“The next full moon is soon,” Arethe was saying, words rasped out between clawing at him, grinding bodies together. “We are only growing stronger by the day. With you by my side I will lead the pack to challenge the farmers that live around here, the peasants, the village, even the castle. This forest is ours, and soon everything around this land will be too.”

Gaston’s back collided with the side of the wagon. Breath surged out of him as Arethe jumped up, wrapping legs around his waist. He held her to him desperately.

He wanted the heat, the rush. He needed to sink deeper so he could soothe the small amounts of confusion and apprehension he felt away. The part of him still unsure what was happening. Doubting what had become of him, nervous.

Arethe straddled him, clutching his face tight between her nails.

“You are _loup-garou_ , my mate…you must learn to become one with your inner animal.” She threw her head back, chortling as he worked at the side of her throat. She hissed out between teeth, “You will reach your full strength only when you are nothing but the beast.”

That word. _Beast._ There was something significant about that. For a second, he almost, almost-

It wasn’t enough. For years he’d gladly given in to the pull of rage, of war and blood-sport; reveled in being a creature of habit and simplicity, fighting and drinking and boasting, jumping from one conquest to the next. A hunter, a lothario, a man who spared no time for thought.

Against that, what was there human left, enough to resist this curse?

Deep in the woods against the broken abandoned wagon, holding her up as she clung against him, Gaston and Arethe – _she-wolf, pack leader, mate_ – coupled like animals. Rough with teeth and skin and saliva.

And he thought of nothing the entire time. He existed in the moment, the senses, the basic satisfaction, the urge. It was the same as hunting. As running beneath the moon in the dark.

Nothing mattered and he remembered not, not his life before, not the things he had done, not even his name.

He was a wolf. He was only a wolf.


	2. the saints can't help me now the ropes have been unbound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The captain howled heave ho heave ho  
> and tied me up with sheets  
> a storm is brewing in the south  
> it’s time to go to sleep
> 
> his berth it rocks heave ho heave ho  
> the ocean gnashed and moaned  
> like Jonah we’ll be swallowed whole  
> and spat back teeth and bones
> 
> he said now hush love   
> here’s your gown  
> there’s the bed   
> lantern’s down
> 
> but I don’t want to go to sleep  
> in all my dreams I drown.“
> 
> \- the devil’s carnival, “in all my dreams I drown”

It was very easy in a little place like Villeneuve to fall into routine.

Every morning could be like the one before and everyone did the same thing over and over and it could make the days, the weeks, the months fly right by.

Maybe for some that was boring. But for others it was a comfort, even a godsend. Because one could follow their patterns without truly thinking and it made living easy, where otherwise it might be hard.

Time flew by. It became easier and easier, as it did, to get over something. Easier and easier to try. Trying not to remember a broken heart, or sink too much into being consumed by grief.

LeFou got up every morning, just the same. He made breakfast and checked on his horse and the chickens and goat he kept, tended the vegetable patch, did whatever needed doing around the house. Eventually he’d walk the short cobblestoned path uphill to the main part of town.

Depending on the day he might run errands, look for work to do, or just mill about the marketplace. Either way he’d find something to make the hours pass. And they would. Inevitably.

When the sun started to set he would go back home or visit the tavern. It’d been long enough he no longer needed to be invited, to decide he was in the mood for company – sometimes he’d choose to go of his own accord. There were people there that were always happy to see him.

He stopped constantly being bothered by how much quieter the tavern seemed to be, now.

He sang along with the minstrels when they came in, sometimes. There were days when he would be speaking to someone and he would smile or even laugh, and though it was smaller or quieter than once it’d been, it would be genuine on his end, unprompted; not at all forced.

It had been two months now and the only time he went anywhere near the woods was if he was cutting through to the castle. Madame Potts kept inviting him for tea, and he could only demur so many times before it felt rude. Anyway, somehow even with all those servants underfoot, it seemed they still had occasional need of a man who knew how to fix a leak or rake a trench or hang a chandelier. That was the thing about LeFou – going through life with his nature he’d become a little bit good at just about everything.

He was growing a mustache now, on a whim. It’d even gotten a few compliments.

The sun was bright and warm that day as he took himself into town. He needed feed for the chickens, fresh hay for his horse, and to visit the cobbler as the goat had gotten ahold of his only spare pair of shoes.

He somehow had too many snap peas this season, so maybe he could trade them with Peg in exchange for credit at the tavern. She could always use them in her stews.

And old Monsieur Jean wanted help fixing a crooked door, and the Headmaster was complaining about a leak in the roof of the school.

When people wanted something done quickly, or imperfectly but functional, they called for LeFou. A handful of coins or some odds and ends to help a young man who lived alone take care of himself – food, fabric, even medicine – was less expensive. Besides in the village, there were a lot of older people or widows or specialized tradesmen with an inconvenient lack of handyman skills. So if he wasn’t in the highest demand – still, there was always _something_.

And that was all he needed: something. Something to keep his hands busy. Something to put enough coin in his pocket so he could eat. Something to keep him feeling useful, even wanted. Like the village was a machine, and he was a cog if an often overlooked one, and he too played his part.

At the market and in the village square, people were exchanging their ‘ _bonjours_ ’. LeFou smiled and nodded to Francis, who smiled back even though he was clearly in a hurry – he was on his way over to see Clarice.

Her husband was on a trip, and that meant for a whole week poor Clarice was finally free to talk to other men at her stall without his jealous eyes boring holes over her shoulder. Obviously, Francis wanted to get in as much socializing while he could.

LeFou waved to Madame Posey, who waved back distractedly. It was barely afternoon but she was already packing up her cart. The summer was over, which meant the sweethearts were paired off and long enough they weren’t really in the stage of sending flowers anymore. In any case it was hot, and her merchandise was starting to wilt.

It had been hot most days, lately. LeFou tugged at the scarf around his neck, sweating a bit – he couldn’t recall the last time he bothered tying his collar with a bow.

It was warm enough he should be wearing his hair pulled up, really, but he’d stopped doing that too. For so many years he’d been following the same style and – well, he hadn’t felt up to experimenting yet to find another. But it seemed pointless to go back.

He took care of his business with the stalls and shopkeepers. He greeted the same people he greeted every day, exchanging small talk, remarking on the weather. He fixed Monsieur Jean’s door and asked after his wife and child. The Headmaster told him to come back tomorrow, he didn’t have the shingles or tar to get the job done yet.

The day was still bright as LeFou returned home, having run out of things to keep him busy for now, but perfectly content in that.

“ _Bonjour_ , LeFou.”

“Oh! _Bonjour_ , Stanley.” He’d reached the space in front of his door, and turned back at the unexpected greeting with a surprised smile. “Say, nice hat! Is that new?”

“It is!” Stanley reached to pet the feathers tucked against the brim with a pleased look. “It’s the latest fashion, Auntie just got them in at the shop. Which means it’s probably three months behind what they’re wearing in Paris…ah well, _c’est le vie.”_

“They don’t know what they’re missing in Paris.” LeFou looked up admiringly. “You always have such great taste in hats, and everything else.”

He really did. LeFou didn’t know if it was from working around his aunt’s shop, or something else, but Stanley had a real eye for color and accessories. He always knew the little touch to make an outfit. LeFou didn’t know how he did it, and so effortlessly.

“ _Merci beaucoup_. You’re too kind.” Stanley glanced away and for a moment LeFou could’ve sworn he was flushing. It must have been the heat. “Anyway…” He cleared his throat and shrugged. “Auntie says I shouldn’t be wearing it. Since it’s technically a fashion for the ladies.”

“It looks perfectly fine on you.”

“Everything looks fine on me,” Stanley responded, half-jokingly. “No one around _here_ would know anyway, unless somebody told them. No one in this town has any real sense of _la mode_.”

It was an old complaint of his and he frowned in annoyance, eyes rolling briefly. LeFou gave him his best sympathetic look.

“ _I’m_ not going to tell anyone, if that at all worries you.”

“Oh no, I’m not worried,” Stanley said quickly. “That you would tell anyone, or that…I don’t care.” He cleared his throat, again, and shook his head. “People will say what they will about me. Let them talk. The only one who fusses anymore is Auntie. But she always worries too much about what people think.”

“Well they do say Madame Mayette’s second trade is in gossip,” LeFou repeated the oft-remarked phrase. “Guess when you spend that much time thinking about other people you assume they’re all doing the same.”

It was _almost_ an unkind observation, so he made sure to do it softly and wryly.

It must have worked because it drew a snorted chuckle out of Stanley. “Too right, you are.”

He didn’t say anything else at once and for a moment they simply stood there, smiling offhandedly at one another.

It wasn’t awkward though. They were friends, after all. A companionable silence. It was just…nice.

They hadn’t really talked, LeFou realized, since the celebration ball. It’d been for everyone who couldn’t make the wedding, and the Prince invited the whole village. It had been the most elaborate event anyone could remember attending in years.

The food had been nice, and the music. The matching outfits the attendees were gifted had been…weird, but a nice touch too. Gave the whole affair that extra air of sophistication.

And it’d definitely been nice when he’d somehow found himself dancing with Stanley. It’d been unexpected, but it felt _right_ – hands together, eyes locked - they had finished the whole number as partners. Best of all, nobody tried to stop them.

LeFou never really tried to keep what he was a secret. He didn’t act out on it, he didn’t talk about it, but he never tried to hide either. Maybe when he was young, but after the war? He’d grown up just enough, in certain ways, over those few years to decide he’d no time for that.

He figured most had guessed by now, and if they hadn’t – oh well. They could figure it out. He didn’t care. Really. They called him ‘ _fat’_ and ‘ _slow’_ and an uncounted number of other names when he was little, before he’d friends to stick up for him.

If it still stung to overhear the occasional whisper when he passed by a crowd, he’d get over it. He’d live. He’d been through worse.

Stanley, admittedly, he’d never been quite sure about – there were rumors, of course. He enjoyed working at the modiste’s shop too much, they said; more than was natural for a man. He only got along with his female cousins. He spent more time on his hair than some of the ladies in town, went an especially biting snigger. And everyone noticed sometimes when he felt daring Stanley would line his eyes with kohl or even dab on a bit of rouge.

But he never said anything, either, so LeFou never was certain. There’d been times he wanted to ask, but then, what if Stanley only liked fashion and that was it? He didn’t want to make a mistake, turn things awkward.

Even if it would’ve been nice to have someone to talk to. Someone who understood.

The village was so small, everyone knew each other – and they had their unorthodox chaplain who delivered enough meaningful sermons about how he believed God’s love extended to all his children, regardless of how some might interpret the scriptures. The good people in Villeneuve were more inclined to turn a sympathetic eye to otherwise well-behaved boys they’d known their whole lives than they were to start screeching about hellfire and damnation.

Though there remained that wide gulf between “tolerated” and “encouraged”.

LeFou might never so much as look at a girl and Stanley might wear makeup, and people would click their tongues occasionally. Sour frowns of disapproval were a lot better than what happened elsewhere in France. But - it would’ve been a very different story if they ever did anything to make it inconveniently harder for everyone else to go on pretending that they knew _nothing_.

And so it was. In LeFou’s experience things could get awfully lonely – but he’d never felt there’d been much of a choice.

Until that dance at the ball.

When their eyes had met, the uncertainty vanished. He had _known_ , absolutely, that he and Stanley were the same way. He had known that Stanley had seen it, too.

After their dance, he and Stanley spent the rest of the night talking. Not about their shared nature, not about anything in particular. Just _talking_. LeFou honestly couldn’t remember what he’d even said. But it’d been companionable and relaxing and…wonderful.

He hadn’t felt so good since that awful night where they stormed the castle. When everything shifted.

But for that evening at the ball, all his woes and bad memories somehow disappeared.

That’d been weeks ago, and though he’d certainly seen Stanley around since, he was always with Dick and Tom. There hadn’t been any opportunities for a conversation with just the two of them.

It occurred to him that might be why Stanley had come down. LeFou’s house was part of the village proper but it was enough off the main road there was no reason to be walking by incidentally. No one came here unless they meant to be his visitor.

It had been awhile since LeFou had a visitor. Even the people that’d fretted over him, for a time, they had confined it to when they saw him in town.

He found himself anxiously glancing around at the porch he’d left un-swept, the crooked shutter he kept meaning to fix, the hole the damn goat had chewed in the fence _again_ , soon as he realized.

“Do you want any help with that?” Stanley gestured to the bale of hay and other parcels LeFou was still holding in his arms.

“Ha, no, it’s just fine.” LeFou swayed back out of reach, feeling abruptly self-conscious. “But thank you,” he added, earnest, at the awkward look on Stanley’s face. _Zut alors_ , were his social skills this stagnated?

Now it was his turn to clear his throat. “Would you like to come inside?”

Stanley’s eyes brightened – then dulled again, suddenly. “I…can’t.” He sounded supremely regretful. “Auntie wants to reorganize all the shelves today, I was only able to beg off half an hour.”

“Oh. You should probably go, then, or you’ll be late. By the time you walk back into town-”

“It’s fine,” Stanley interrupted. There was that flush again, he was sure of it. Suddenly LeFou’s own face felt rather warm. “I wanted to talk to you. I wanted…I’ve been meaning to see, how you’re doing.”

“I’m…fine.”

Standing there was beginning to feel tedious so LeFou turned towards the little shed that served as a stable. He could set his things down, at least. Stanley followed him.

“You know. No complaints. I’ve been getting by.”

“You deserve to be doing more than getting by.”

It was quiet, how Stanley said it. But meaningful. LeFou was glad he’d turned his back to throw the hay where it belonged, because he honestly wasn’t sure of his own expression.

He had himself more or less under control when he turned around again. “Th-thank you. I…that’s…you’re kind.”

“I mean it.” Stanley was looking directly into his eyes. His cheeks had some color to them, once more, but he still was holding his gaze.

He had very nice eyes, LeFou realized. Dark and warm, all at once. The kind that could be stared into for hours. He felt very silly, that he’d never noticed Stanley’s eyes before. Surely he must’ve seen them?

Somehow it felt like he hadn’t.

“I know you do.” LeFou met his gaze back and smiled at him, because what else could he do. “And I appreciate it. It’s…you know, I don’t really have anyone to talk to, these days.”

He put his hands on his waist, looked down at his feet, smiling ruefully.

“It’s funny. People ask, how am I. I know they’re paying attention to me. A lot. But I don’t have anyone to – _talk_ to.”

He wasn’t sure if he should say this out loud. It felt almost like he was whining. When he looked back up, though, Stanley was only watching him with perfect understanding.

“You’re lonely,” he murmured.

Those two words struck at something in LeFou’s chest. The knot that still hadn’t gone away, that throbbed more sharply some days than others. The unanswered questions about what he was going to do with his life now, and if he’d ever really be the same again, and would he still be fine if he wasn’t.

For a moment he held his breath because he felt like he might cry. Not because he was still grieving, though, and it still hurt – though that was part of it too.

But mainly it was because it felt like Stanley was seeing him, truly _seeing_ him, and it was so simple but it meant so much. Just to know somebody was concerned enough, that they _cared_ , that they’d been paying real attention.

“Yeah.” LeFou’s voice was shaky with the effort of trying to stay composed. “Yeah, I am. It’s not the same, for me, without-”

“I know.” Stanley gave a funny laugh. “My cousins are still in mourning, you know. Though between us, I doubt they’ll last much longer. Harvest time means an excuse to get new frocks, and they’re starting to miss wearing color.”

“I’m sure.” LeFou pulled a face and he scrubbed at one eye, though he was certain no tears had actually fallen. “I could spend time with them if I wanted a shoulder to weep on, _maybe_. But those three…they didn’t know him. They never did. Not really. They’re pining after an ideal.”

“None of us really _knew_ him,” Stanley muttered, though not without compassion. “Not like you did.”

“Right.” LeFou laughed, high and without humor. “Everyone feels something about Gaston, now that he’s gone. But none of them feels _like me_. So who have I got to go to, if I wanted to talk about things?”

They hated him or they loved him, but LeFou felt both.

He didn’t think he’d find a single proper commiserating ear anywhere. No one understood. They could try, but no one understood.

“You can talk to me, LeFou.” Stanley reached for his hand and gave a brief squeeze – LeFou stared down at it, blinking. “I may not feel the same way, but I can listen. If that helps. I want to help.”

LeFou kept staring at their hands together before eventually he looked back at Stanley.

“It hurts,” he said in a small voice. “It still…hurts. And I feel like I can’t _tell_ anyone. They’ll say that he doesn’t deserve it, or that it’s wrong for me to feel that way, or it’s time to move on.”

He drew a deep breath and freed his hand from Stanley’s because it felt like both his hands were turning clammy and he felt bad enough without making someone hold his sweaty palm.

“And maybe they’re right. Some of it’s right, anyway. But knowing that doesn’t make it go away. It still hurts.”

“I know.” Stanley’s mouth was tugged down, heavy, with sadness, and his eyes were wide. “I can see that you’re hurting. It’s…a shame, frankly. A person like you doesn’t deserve to be so hurt.”

“A person like me?” LeFou sniffled, awkward.

A person who inadvertently helped lead an old man out into the woods to be murdered. A person who’d had a chance to make that right, but didn’t. A person who lied.

He shook his head hard because he didn’t want to think about this anymore.

“Anyway,” he forced his tone to change. “Thanks for coming out to talk to me, Stanley. It really did mean a lot.”

“Any time.” Stanley stuffed hands in his pockets. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind talking to you again, sometime soon. I mean, if you’re not busy,” he tacked this last bit on in a hurry.

“No, no, I’m not…of course. I’d love to see you again. And talk.”

He felt mightily self-conscious about asking Stanley to listen to his feelings, but he _did_ enjoy talking with him in general. And the feeling seemed to be mutual. There was no reason not to encourage that.

Stanley stood up abruptly straighter. He looked like he was gathering his courage.

“What I would really like, if you’re interested,” he said in a funny tone of voice, as if his words were rehearsed, “would be to go with you to the tavern some night. The two of us. And, I would buy you dinner.”

LeFou just looked at him for a long moment.

Stanley wanted to buy him dinner. He wanted the two of them to go somewhere, together. In public, but, _together_. To eat and to talk.

“W-wait,” LeFou blurted, filling up with a disbelieving sense of elation, “do you mean…?”

Stanley nodded, grinning like a fool, because apparently he could already read LeFou’s reaction. “I do.”

It was a date. Someone was asking him on a date.

Someone as good-looking and stylish and nice as Stanley was _asking him on a date_.

More than that there was the way that Stanley was acting. Like asking LeFou in the first place had been intimidating. Like he really thought he was _that_ level of worthy.

Even at the height of giddiness however LeFou tried to think rationally.

“Oh…Stanley. That’s…I am so flattered.” He swallowed. “Seriously. You have no idea how much this means to me. But I don’t think I’m ready for that, yet. I still need some time.”

He was kicking himself but it was true. He wasn’t over Gaston, and he couldn’t put his heart into something new so long as he still felt like this. He wouldn’t be able to enjoy himself.

“I see. I mean, of course.”

Stanley’s expression had fallen, then frozen. He was turning, right before LeFou’s eyes, into a man about to flee from shame.

“I understand. Well. I’ll be just-”

“Wait!” LeFou almost yelped, eyes wide. He had to clear up this misunderstanding. “I don’t mean…I don’t think it’ll take _that_ much time.” He smiled tentatively, hopeful. “Maybe a few weeks? Or, a month? If you don’t mind…waiting.”

“Oh.” Stanley breathed out, body relaxing. Now that he knew he wasn’t getting the polite brush-off. “No. No, I don’t mind.”

“Good,” LeFou said, relieved.

“Very good,” Stanley returned.

They were both smiling at each other like sappy lunatics.

Then again it wasn’t every day you got to find out a very nice eligible young man was interested in courting you. Particularly in Villeneuve.

“I – should go, now,” Stanley said reluctantly. “My aunt-”

“Go.” LeFou waved his hand and nodded. “Give your family my regards, huh?”

“I’ll tell Auntie you said hello. If I mention your name around the triplets they’ll start sobbing from the association.” Stanley considered it. “Then again, I might do it anyway, if they’re being annoying.”

LeFou laughed stiltedly. “Go! Have a good day.” He felt anxious again, out of nowhere. “I’ll…see you around?”

“Yes. See you around,” Stanley returned. He started to walk away, and LeFou wandered out of the stable intending to watch him go.

Stanley had just started to climb the hill though when he stopped abruptly, and turned back to face him again.

“Oh, LeFou?”

“Y-yes?”

Stanley beamed at him. His teeth and eyes were positively sparkling. In the pale glow of the midday sun he looked especially fine under his beautiful hat.

And despite his bashfulness of but a few moments before, from the downright cocky way he was looking at LeFou just then, it seemed he somehow knew it too.

“Don’t keep me waiting _too_ long,” he told LeFou, sweetly. “All right?”

LeFou completely knew it had nothing to do with the heat of the weather, this time, when he felt the warm rush to his cheeks.

“Absolutely,” he squeaked out in response. “I promise.”

Stanley tilted the brim of his hat and batted his eyes, and then he twirled around and went back up the hill to the village so jauntily he was practically skipping.

LeFou stared until he was out of sight completely. He didn’t quite know what his legs were doing as they brought him back inside the shed, where he sat down on a barrel with a giddy awestruck sigh.

“He _likes_ me,” he told his horse, in a voice that might’ve seemed better suited to a twelve-year-old.

The horse snorted, unimpressed.

“Well!” LeFou crossed his arms, unwilling to let the good moment be punctured. “That’s just what _you_ think.”

*

They always said the mark of true bravery wasn’t feeling _no_ fear, but having that fear and pushing through regardless. One of those sayings often clucked from supposedly sager, well-read tongues.

It was one of those things they would lecture to the boys in school. The Headmaster standing at the front of the room, reading aloud from some old book written by an ancient philosopher; stuffily important boring quotes somehow intended to enlighten their minds and make better men of them if they only took the wisdom to heart.

Gaston always sat in the back where he could stretch his legs out. He leaned away from his desk, annoyed with the itchy tightness of his uniform cap and jacket collar. He’d spend most lessons staring out the window, looking at the trees and the sky, trying not to sigh. Thinking how he’d much rather be in the woods with his father.

He was old enough Papa let him fire his musket sometimes, and he knew how to read tracks and set a snare on his own. He was far more impressed by his own cleverness when he was out there than from anything they ever tried to teach him at the little village school.

One day he announced to his parents he was done with his education. He knew his letters well enough, he could read his way through a whole book if he cared to – not that he ever would. He could count and add, and sign his full name with a flourish. There was no need, he’d decided to his satisfaction, to go back anymore, wasting perfectly good days trapped inside under the Headmaster’s stern scrutiny.

His parents never refused him much. Certainly he was far more educated than they’d ever been as neither could read and write at all. Anyway, they reasoned, there wasn’t much point in wasting the francs, trying to make him go if he didn’t want to. Why not let him stay home, then, help his father with the woodcutting and gather food for the table?

So once again Gaston got what he wanted. He left behind the world of books and sayings, ink dried on brown pages, the words of men long dead who frankly didn’t seem to know much about the real world. They’d little to say on subjects of fresh air and sunshine, and he was willing to bet not one of them knew how to hunt.

Still some things stuck with you. For some reason he could recall those words, in summation if not specificity. The idea one needed to feel fear in order to prove they were truly brave.

_‘Nonsense’_ , Gaston always scoffed. He’d never felt afraid his whole life.

He never had reason to be much afraid of anything. He was tall and big from his earliest days, stronger than any boy his age and those a few years older besides. And like most youngsters in love with life he never really thought he could get hurt, let alone die.

But of course he was brave! He was _fearless_. He was the most courageous man who ever lived.

When he went to war he enjoyed the battles and victories far too much to ever be frightened; and when fear threatened to creep within, he’d shove it aside, focusing on something else instead.

He came home triumphant and glorious and accountable to absolutely no one, as he’d lost his parents a few years before. He spent the years after that as confident and convinced of his bravery as he’d always been – he was a _war hero_ now, after all. Who could need more proof?

He was never afraid of failure, either. People did not refuse him, he was simply too determined, too charming. He always had whatever he wanted, whatever he set his mind to.

It was easy to say Gaston had gone his whole life without knowing fear, real fear – until that night at the castle. When for the first time he looked death in the eye and recognized it for what it was. For the first time he had to deal with something truly stronger than he was.

Suffice to say he hadn’t like the feeling. And in the face of such odds, at last, he found it impossible to be brave.

Just another thing in the past though he was happier not to remember. Another reason to leave it all behind, to embrace the forest and the wolf and the night.

Forget the things that might shame him, anger him. Forget those unwanted moments at the end.

Instead he stayed a wolf. And he ran, and he ran.

The second full moon since his transformation came. The wolf within was strongest that night, making it impossible to be anything else. Near impossible the nights leading up to it too.

Not that it mattered for them. They were almost always wolves.

The woods were shadow and dirt, sound and smell. The animal thought in simple terms, viewed the world in straightforward ways. Pack, prey, hunt, kill, feed.

The man no longer existed. He couldn’t even remember his name.

The full moon came and went. The powerful pull lingered over him even as in the sky the orb began to wane. Another night, and then another night, and then another night. The pack ran through the dark in four-footed form and he was among them. They slept during the day, woke still in wolf form, therefore never truly awakening.

It was a dark night and the air was humid and the pack was on the move. Together they stalked a pair of deer, an antlered stag and his doe. Both had grown fat on the unbroken grass of the forest. Either would make a good feast.

They sang out, signaling one another, chasing down the deer as they ran for their lives. The trees grew thick and the pair split – the pack halted, unsure. The she-wolf started to go after the doe; that way was clearer, less trees, an easy path to run her down.

But the black wolf growled and turned the other way, fur bristling. He wanted the stag.

The she-wolf glared, took his measure, decided not to waste her time. She snapped her jaws and twitched her head.

The two smallest females, the smallest male and the big grey she sent with the black wolf. The rest went with her. The pack parted.

The black wolf ran after the stag, fast as four legs could carry him. He barely paid attention to the others, which proved his mistake.

With five they could’ve surrounded the stag, overtaken him. Instead they tried to outrun him when he already had the lead and fear on his side. The terrain, as well – it was downhill, uneven, full of low-hanging branches and gnarled roots, bark dark enough it was hard even for wolves to spot in the night.

The chubby little one with the golden-yellow fur ran headlong into an unexpected trunk and fell with a whimper. The big grey stopped, nudging her with his nose.

The black wolf never paused. The remaining two, both scrawny and brown, struggled to keep up.

It was all in vain. By the time the trees broke there was no sign of the stag.

Their prey was gone, they had nothing. The black wolf howled loud, venting disappointment to the night.

The other wolves caught up to them; the smaller wolf still shaking her head, dazed. They met eyes with the two browns. As one they started to go back in the direction they came.

The black wolf stopped them with a snarl. They fell in line instantly, tails lowered, the smallest male yelping as he leapt to obey.

The black wolf was frustrated – this hunt had been his to lead and he failed. They wouldn’t return with empty bellies. No matter what.

They kept going. They’d almost left the woods behind now. This was further out than the she-wolf usually led them. The grass was sparse here, the trees older, and there would be less prey.

Finally their noses brought them to something: practically at the edge of the forest a boar had fallen. Old and sick, his meat wouldn’t have made the best eating were he still alive.

He wasn’t alive. He’d been dead for at least a day and his bloated belly had split in the heat, skin crawling with flies. Beetles and maggots were already making their work.

But no other animals had found the carcass and there was plenty still to eat. The five hungry wolves dug muzzles in, not bothering to eat around the insects, teeth sucking at the marrow as they took turns cracking bones from the old boar’s ribcage.

They ate until they were full. Waste not, want not in the wild.

The other four were tired, after; ready to go back, find the rest of their pack. They looked to the black wolf for guidance, ears hanging uneasily.

But the black wolf was uninterested. He was still restless. He wanted to keep going, to run. He grunted dismissively. The four trotted off without him, though both the big grey and the amber-eyed female glanced back.

The black wolf didn’t care. He ran. He ran and ran and ran.

The woods were gone now. He was in open terrain, fields. A road leading – somewhere. This was familiar. Why?

The further he went the more confused he became, yet the more determined to see it through. He was in farmlands now. Then fallow ground. Then a meadow. A big wide meadow at the crest of a hill.

He’d been this way before, but he’d not been running on four legs then. He had two legs. He carried a rifle, sat astride a horse. He wasn’t alone. Somebody was with him, somebody always-

As he reached the bottom of the hill an automatic snarl rose in his throat, the animal not liking what he saw signs of, what he smelled. _Humans._

The black wolf went slowly, wary. He stopped in the last copse of trees before town, where no humans would see him. Not that any would be out this far. Not in the dead of night.

But he could smell their cooking fires, their stone and wooden houses. Even this late there were sounds, little signs, of so many humans. During the day it would be worse.

What was he doing? The wolf didn’t want to be here. Wild animals always ran away from humans, understanding them as threats. There was nothing to hunt here. It’d be dangerous if he was seen.

The wolf was afraid, instinctive. But he wasn’t – just a wolf…

The man knew this place had a name. It was called Villeneuve.

He remembered striding through stone streets. He remembered hunting with a gun. He remembered buying flowers, brushing his hair and looking in a glass. He remembered sitting at a tavern, drinking beer, talking, laughing. Being cheered for. Being adored. Being-

_Gaston. Gaston. My name is Gaston._

With a deep gasp as if he’d surfaced from the bottom of the ocean, Gaston resumed his human form, body twisting with pain.

He staggered forward, leaning heavily on a tree as his head spun.

He could smell Villeneuve. He knew if he waited only a few hours more he’d hear sounds of her people waking. Through the trees if he squinted he could just glimpse the top of familiar roofs.

This was the route he’d taken so many times, returning from hunting with LeFou. No wonder he’d known the way. He was – home. He was _home_ , where he’d lived all his years, where he’d been the man every man looked up to and every woman loved and… _human_.

He’d been living a kind of dream, never coming to the full reality. He did now at once, memories of his existence in the past weeks coming to him again in a kind of crash.

Living in the woods like an animal. Rutting and tussling with other wolves. Hunting, killing with claws and teeth. Being able to smell and hear things he shouldn’t. Running on all fours, covered in fur.

The boar. He remembered the boar. A dead animal carcass crawling with bugs. He had _eaten_ that. He-

Gaston dropped to his hands and knees, vomiting up the contents of his stomach.

He hunched there in the dirt, shaking, spitting out the last; eyes wrenched tight as he didn’t want to see proof he’d feasted on maggots and rotten flesh.

“I’ve made a mistake,” he choked aloud, because he needed to hear his own voice – his human voice. “A _mistake._ I can’t…live this way. What have I done…”

The change had been intoxicating. The power, the strength, the wild simplicity. To man who already loved base pleasures and violence, giving in had been so easy. He hadn’t tried to fight.

He never thought about it since waking up as a wolf. Not really. He never felt the full weight of the truth.

He was _loup-garou_ – the creature the whole country had gone mad with fear trying to stamp out a few centuries before. A beast that mention of turned otherwise rational people into frightened children, glancing over their shoulders and crossing themselves at night.

English superstition screamed for the blood of witches but when Frenchmen feared the Devil, when babies turned up dead or missing and mysterious illnesses claimed the neighbors, they went looking for wolves.

Cannibals, madmen, consorts of Satan. People who sold their souls, twisting bodies with blackest magic for power.

They’d burned over a hundred of them in Valais. If anyone found out what he was now, they wouldn’t hesitate to burn him too. Or if he was lucky, they’d take pity on him and lock him away – in an asylum.

He rolled onto his side, eyes still shut, moaning. He could feel the scar on his shoulder fresh as if it still held teeth.

If he’d been the least bit more paranoid he might have thought it was Belle’s fault. She’d flung the word at him, _monster,_ and look what happened. He _had_ become a monster indeed.

_No. No, no, no_. He clawed at his face, mind wracking as he tried to think what to do. There had to be some way out of this.

There was no cure, perhaps. But he wasn’t going to embrace it again. Not anymore. He was Gaston: hunter, soldier, hero. He was a man.

He would return to Villeneuve. He’d remind himself how to be human again, before things got any worse. Before he forgot what wine and bread tasted like. Before he forgot how to enjoy sitting in front of a fire, telling stories and singing songs. Before he forgot how to sleep in a bed with sheets.

The strength of the wolf was grand. It was freeing to give in entirely to his bloodlust.

But he never realized before how much of what he was depended on being human, on belonging to a world of rationality and civility and society. Praise and admiration were things men received, not wolves.

They didn’t give wolves commendations as military officers. They didn’t make toasts in wolves’ honor. They didn’t paint wolves’ pictures on the wall – or if they did, it was to celebrate men killing them.

Gaston was the hunter who collected trophies – he sure as hell wasn’t going to end up one.

Feeling better now that he had a plan he sat up on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He looked ahead.

Less than a hundred paces away was home. If only he could make himself move that way. But he could feel the wolf inside of him – and it was terrified, and hostile. It didn’t want to be here, and he realized with dread it had more control of his body even now.

He could smell the village: the scent of so many people living close together, fabric and livestock and fire pits and rubbish and sweat.

The wolf said, “ _absolutely not”._ To the wolf that way meant danger and injury. It didn’t want to go to Villeneuve – it wanted to run.

He couldn’t go back, not yet. He needed to get better control of himself first.

So, later then. Later. He would have to return to the woods, to the pack, to Arethe. But he’d escape first chance he got. He’d find a way.

Gaston stood, glanced to the sky to ensure he had time, and then tugged off his red huntsman’s coat. Despite the tears and grime it’d picked up since that night it hadn’t left his body. Which was good.

He rubbed the back of the garment against his chest, the sleeves against his wrists, the collar against the side of his neck. Then he dug a shallow hole in the ground and buried the coat.

Crouching he sifted a handful of the dirt on top through his fingers, sniffing. It worked: even under the ground he could find his own scent. He’d be able to follow it back, even if the wolf still had too much a hold on him and made him confused.

He’d left himself enough breadcrumbs. He would find his way home.

But for now-

It felt good to change back into a wolf again, and he hated it. He could feel himself sinking under and he tried reminding himself who he was. What was important.

But the wolf was hungry and exhausted and in unfamiliar territory. It had enough of this place.

It turned its back on the village, and began the long journey towards the woods.

*

It was shaping up to be a hot early fall, that was for certain.

But that didn’t mean the mornings couldn’t still be cold. And if there was one drawback to living in such a large castle it was long hallways and big rooms could often be drafty.

Luckily Mrs. Potts knew the surefire cure for even the slightest chill.

It was well after the breakfast hour. All was quiet. In one of the side parlors off the kitchen, rooms meant for the household staff, she carefully finished setting the tea to steep and made one last adjustment to the iced biscuits laid out on the tray next to the pot. Then he she stood back, hands resting on her skirts as she admired her handiwork.

The teas she often made, especially for her own enjoyment, were fragrant and floral. Within minutes the air filled with sweet aroma as the leaves mixed with the boiling water.

And like a magic charm – it summoned company to her. She smiled as the door opened.

“Aha! I thought I recognized that familiar _parfum._ ” Lumiere waved hand in front of his nose, closing his eyes as he sniffed delicately. “And just in the nick of time too. Plumette and I were about going on our break.”

“Well – now we are,” his companion added cheekily, slipping in behind him.

“Shush, shush, _ma cherie_. Timing, she is everything. As is the art of keeping a secret,” he pretended to scold her, giving a wink. Plumette merely smirked back at him, knowing.

Lumiere reached for a cup. “How long until our repast is ready?”

“A few minutes more, maybe,” Mrs. Potts informed him, the certain expert.

“We are so lucky,” Plumette said as she took the cup and saucer Lumiere handed her, the manservant then reaching back for his own. “I don’t know what we’d do without your knack for the perfect brew. You would think after all those years you might have gotten sick of making tea.”

Understanding her, Mrs. Potts shrugged it off. “It was my pleasure beforehand. I’m not about to let any curse have taken that from me.”

Plumette’s smile seemed vaguely envious: as if she thought the older woman’s constitution exceeded her own. “I don’t want to ever touch another duster again in my life, if I can help it.”

“I’ve come to discover I can’t stand the smell of melted candlewax,” Lumiere confided as he picked up a biscuit, taking a nibble. “Ah, well. Perhaps once as many years have passed as we were under the spell, I’ll have gotten over it.”

“At some point we really do need to figure out how long that was.” Mrs. Potts patted her hair absently, fretting. “It’s Chip’s birthday soon. He keeps asking how old he’s turning.”

“Probably the same,” Plumette guessed. “None of us seems to have gotten any older, I’m sure we’ve all noticed.”

“ _Mais oui_ ,” Lumiere said. “But then objects, they do not age. Do they?”

The women shook their heads in confirmation.

The door swung open and in tottered Cogsworth, whose eyes went wide as he beheld them standing there.

“Wh-what’s this?” he stammered. He pulled out a pocket-watch. “The three of you can’t be taking your breaks at once! It’s strictly against protocol. It’ll throw everything off. And I for one-”

“Oh, Cogsworth, lighten up,” Lumiere scoffed. “The master and his wife are in the library for the day. They will never notice.”

“All chaos could break loose and they’d not notice,” Mrs. Potts couldn’t resist remarking. The Prince and Belle’s two great loves: books and each other. They were in their own little world.

Cogsworth’s mustache twitched. “Even so. Decorum must be maintained even when the noble lords and ladies are, er, otherwise disposed in their attentions. This household must be run properly.”

“The gears will not grind to a halt in a single half an hour, _mon ami_.”

“Besides who is going to say anything? You?” While the men had been talking Plumette had discretely placed two biscuits on a saucer and now she set it into Cogsworth’s hands with a charming smile. “But would you not rather be here, joining us?”

With perfect timing Mrs. Potts picked up the teapot and poured, filling Cogsworth’s cup.

The scented steam floated upward to his nose and before he could stop himself he gave a happy sigh.

He took in the way the others were looking at him – shrewdly, amused – and with a grumble he shoved his watch away again. “Oh well – all right! I suppose a well-timed break can ultimately add to the efficiency…”

“That’s the spirit.” Lumiere patted his shoulder. “Madame Potts, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course, dear, of course.” She poured his cup as well, then Plumette’s, last filling her own. She left them to doctor their own with sugar or cream.

Not that she couldn’t have done it for them, if they wanted. Mrs. Potts always knew how everyone took their tea.

“By the way, where is the little darling today?” Plumette asked, returning to the subject of Chip.

“He’s at home with his father. They’ve a lot of catching up to do, the poor lads.”

The other woman made a sound of sympathy. “Is there any chance Monsieur Potts will be coming to join us at the castle?”

“We’ve talked on it. There’s no easy answer, I’m afraid. My work is here. And he has his shop to run. He can’t simply pick up and leave it.”

“So you’ll be going back and forth for now.” Lumiere observed, “Good thing you’ve earned some time off.”

“A few years of being cursed into painted porcelain does garner some vacation days, I reckon,” she agreed.

“Well if he ever changes his mind – there’s plenty of room for him here. We’ll make him most comfortable.”

He waved his free hand and grinned, as if preemptively enjoying the chance to tour around yet another guest.

“I’m sure you would.”

Her poor Jean might have a heart-attack if subjected to too much of Lumiere’s showmanship. But then the man seemed to take special treat in awing the villagers.

She looked at Cogsworth. “What about your wife, then, love? Any chance she might decide to move in herself? I know she’s missed you something terrible.”

He choked on his biscuit, glancing around in fear. “Good God, woman, don’t say that aloud! She might wander in and hear you. Heaven help us if she actually thought that was a good idea!”

Lumiere laughed openly. Plumette tittered. Mrs. Potts merely rolled her eyes.

The door opened and the four of them turned to see who now joined them.

This time, however, it was one that none of them had been expecting.

“Oh…hello.” Maurice stood there in his well-worn clothing, hair carelessly tied, and blinked at them.

“Why, Monsieur Maurice,” Lumiere greeted him in warm surprise. “What an unanticipated pleasure!”

Plumette offered a slight curtsey. “Whatever can we do for you, Monsieur?”

Cogsworth probably would’ve said something too, if his mouth wasn’t currently full of tea and biscuits.

Mrs. Potts bit the inside of her cheek, not sure if she wanted to laugh or click her tongue in pity. The lord’s newly minted father-in-law was looking about even the comparatively unadorned servant’s parlor with a hard to read expression. Fidgeting his fingers together, shrinking in a way that indicated to her he probably felt both small and overwhelmed.

He might’ve once lived in Paris, she reasoned, but he had been a working-level artisan; a man of limited means and simple nature. And he’d been in Villeneuve for about his daughter’s whole lifetime.

Of course when Belle joined the castle she’d insisted her father come as well. They were close, and it was probably unthinkable to her she begin her new adventure in relative comfort while her father was left all alone.

It had been a sweet gesture that Maurice could hardly refuse. Now that his daughter was wed, what remained for him in the village anyway?

Still where Belle was intrigued by the changes to their lifestyle more than intimidated – it was times such as these Mrs. Potts was willing to place a bet Maurice almost missed their little cottage at the center of Villeneuve, with his crowded workbench and a yard full of chickens.

“I hate to interrupt,” Maurice was saying, with a feeble smile. “But I seem to have gotten lost again. So many twists and turns in this place…”

She spoke in a soft tone. “What are you looking for, dear?”

There was a pause. He laughed, sheepish. “Honestly, I’m not sure! Really, guess I was only…wandering.”

Mrs. Potts moved aside, gesturing towards the table. Plumette pulled out a chair. Lumiere beckoned forward, grinning in his usual way – though he toned it down, at a glance from his paramour.

“Well. If you were looking for a spot to sit for a while, with warm tea and quiet company,” Mrs. Potts said encouragingly, “then you’ve come to the right place.”

“Here, here,” Cogsworth effused – spraying crumbs everywhere. Some of them got in his mustache.

“Thank you. You’re too kind.” Maurice settled himself in the chair that was offered with a tired smile.

The four made to find seats of their own, and watching from the corner of her eye Mrs. Potts was glad to see he looked more relaxed than a moment before.

“Never you mind.” She patted his hand with a smile. “We’re all friends here.”

“Family, after a fashion, I should say,” Cogsworth put in, with one of his surprising moments of open charity. Both Plumette and Lumiere nodded.

Mrs. Potts took a seat directly across from Maurice, then reached back for the tray still on the table behind her.

“Now then. How’d you like a sweet biscuit?”

*

The black wolf had finally reached the pack just before dawn. They’d retreated to a familiar corner of the woods, deep at the center of the forest, near some caverns that made good shelter when the weather turned rough.

He approached the group stiffly on legs covered with dirt, breathing heavily after his long jaunt away, his feet sore.

There was no reproach for a failed hunt. The others merely looked up, taking in he’d returned.

The she-wolf went to him and rubbed her scarred muzzle hard against the side of his jaw and neck. Marking him with her scent, reclaiming him as hers.

After she stalked off the rest of the pack circled around and followed suit, touches more gentle or idle. Bumping noses, rubbing shoulders, brushing bodies together. This was how the pack knew each other, gained stability through each other’s presence.

Without any words, this was a wolf’s welcome home.

Briefly as they walked by one another the big grey wolf met his eyes, holding gaze longer than strictly normal. It was the closest thing to personalized that happened during this series of interactions.

Nine wolves lay down in a loose circle outside near the mouth of the caverns and fell sound asleep.

It was late afternoon by the time Gaston awoke again, eyes opening in drowsy confusion.

He’d shifted form while he slept. He was spread out on his back in the dirt, a brown wolf curled so close by his ear he could hear the breathing. He’d dreamed of war – charging up a muddy hill, air ringing with yells of men and weapons firing, a hand gripping the back of his officer’s coat as a voice behind him panted _“Gaston, Gaston, slow down, I can’t keep up”_ – and he woke still smelling gunpowder.

He put his weight onto one elbow and looked around.

The wolf nearest him was Jean-Paul, making noises in his sleep. Arethe was also still a wolf, stretched out beneath a tree. She looked asleep but her good eye was turned the other way, making it hard to tell.

Gaston was careful to get up very quietly.

Everyone else was awake. Marcus had moved away from the main group again, sitting crouched on the ground, hand over one knee. His pale grey eyes met Gaston’s again, holding gaze with same intent undetermined significance – just as they had the night before, when they’d both still been wolves.

He didn’t know how he felt that Marcus had been part of the group he’d tried to lead after the stag. He supposed it meant nothing, ultimately.

He stood, trying to work the kinks out of his spine, glancing at the rest.

Rochelle was in wolf form – grey like Marcus, darker black tipping her ears and around her eyes. Nathalie casually hugged her, arms around her neck, Gracie sitting next to her – leaning forward on her hands as she whispered something into Nathalie’s ear that made both grin with silent laughter.

The smaller woman showed no signs of injury where she’d had the run-in with the tree. But then, _loup-garou_ were good healers.

Edgar sat the nearest where Arethe was, though even he dared not get too close. He was gnawing on a bone held in his hands, trying to break it with his human teeth. God only knew where he got it.

Aveline had her back against a tree, arms folded. Always watching, that one. Always silent.

She made no noise, even, when after Gaston had been standing for a few minutes she approached him.

“Where were you last night? You were gone an awful long time.” Her voice was toneless, the inquiry piercing.

Gaston started and frowned at her.

“I might have gotten a bit lost on my way back,” he lied in a grumble, avoiding eye contact. Thinking that would be that.

Aveline however wasn’t fooled, and seemingly wasn’t to be dissuaded. Beneath brown fringe those amber eyes never blinked.

“But where did you go?” she demanded – having caught on he failed to answer her actual question.

Irritated and uncomfortable, Gaston rounded on her, showing his teeth. “What do you care?”

Aveline stared up at him, neither backing down or rising to his aggression. Her lips turned down hard.

“I don’t.”

Without another word, she turned and walked away.

Not sure what to make of that he put as much distance from her as he could, as he went to find a hard space on the ground to sit.

More time passed. No one spoke, and while there were glances and occasional murmurs, few of the pack interacted directly. It was if they were in a kind of limbo, waiting. They rarely did anything of significance in human form, Gaston abruptly realized – they saved their energy, their real living for when they were wolves.

He looked around again. At how their faces were tired and lean, their clothes filthy and fraying. Their eyes too sharp, even in human form their motions too fluid. They were wolves wearing human skin. They had forgotten how to be people – and not a one of them seemed to care.

They were hungry and dirty and all but mute, and if anyone wandered in right now they’d know at a glance they weren’t _right._ Even if they couldn’t name it, they would know they weren’t normal.

What would they see if they looked at Gaston – something just as bad? How much longer until he appeared the same as the rest of them?

He suppressed a shudder.

Edgar came over, head down, making eye contact cautiously. Testing if it was fine for him to approach.

Gaston looked away, lacing his fingers, keeping his body tense – neither welcoming the intrusion or blocking it.

It was enough. The other came beside him and crouched down, getting comfortable. He reached inside his coat and pulled out the flask he’d taken – what seemed like a lifetime ago. Gaston had almost forgotten that abandoned wagon. Edgar offered it, wordless, and after a moment’s hesitation he took it.

Whatever was inside burned like liquid fire. He had to breathe out, suppressing a cough. Cheap liquor. _Old_ liquor, too. He finished a full swallow anyway.

Edgar’s mouth twitched in amused camaraderie. When he reclaimed the flask, he didn’t bother wiping the edge before knocking a drink back himself.

As he moved the sleeve of his coat shifted, revealing a brand on his wrist. Gaston pulled slightly back, turning his head to avoid looking at the mark with distaste.

It wasn’t morality that bothered him. It was social status. He was too aware most of these people would’ve been far beneath him under normal circumstances. A stripe that a respectable man such as Gaston wouldn’t make eye contact with on the street, let alone speak to.

Edgar was a thief; one that’d been caught at that. Rochelle, Nathalie and Gracie carried themselves with that distinct too-free body language of women that stood in gangs on busy corners in large cities – cut-purses or prostitutes, or a combination of the two. Nathalie even wore men’s clothes, for goodness sake. Jean-Paul, given the hair that’d been shaved off and not properly trimmed once it grew back, had to have been locked away somewhere at one point – prison, workhouse, or madhouse. And while he’d no idea what Aveline’s story was, she stared far too much to pass for a woman raised with proper feminine manners.

He couldn’t picture Arethe as having ever been anything human enough, to even theorize where she would have fit into society.

Edgar leaned towards him, speaking in an undertone. “I only ask because I’m curious. You and Marcus. Two of you up to something?”

Gaston turned back to stare at him blankly. “What?”

Edgar shrugged. “The past couple weeks. You keep giving each other these _looks_. Almost like you’re plotting a scheme.” He grunted. “You’re not very subtle. Even I’ve noticed.”

Gaston frowned as he thought about it.

It was true, he supposed – ever since he’d found out Marcus was a fellow former soldier, there’d been a slight bond formed between them. They hadn’t spoken again but it didn’t seem to matter. Time and time again they sought each other’s eyes out, for no reason other than just because.

“It’s nothing,” he told Edgar, honest. “It’s only we realized we both fought in the last war.”

He stretched his legs out, looking straight ahead.

“We were at the same battle though we didn’t know each other then. You could say we have an understanding, based on shared experiences. That’s all.”

Edgar scoffed his disinterest.

“ _Wars_ ,” he said, dismissive. “Fat kings getting fatter while the stupid and the unlucky are dragged off to play soldier boy. What a world I’m as glad to have left behind.”

He hit his flask again and nudged Gaston with one shoulder. “Bet you’re even more grateful than I am to her, eh? Being set free.”

It hit Gaston like ice cold water, what he was saying.

“ _Grateful_ ,” he repeated – voice stilted, eyes wide. “I didn’t ask for this.”

Not seeming to catch his anger, his horror, Edgar snorted. “What, you’d rather be dead than one of us?”

The question was probably meant to be rhetorical. But it wasn’t one he liked being asked because he didn’t want to consider the answer.

For in truth, he’d no idea what it was.

Without a word he got to his feet and stomped off, retreating into the cave nearby.

He stood inside the mouth to the cavern, far enough the noise from the wind out there went quiet but near enough not to lose the light. His back to the outside, he breathed steadily as he could as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

His stomach rolled with anxiety and he felt tension radiating up and down his spine. The animal within him stirred, wolf threatening to rise to the surface. Anything primal, it tried to seize control: fear, anger, pain. If there was something to fight it wanted to bring out the fangs, and if there was something to run from it knew it’d be faster on four legs than two.

Just as he’d begun to relax, there was movement behind him and he caught a familiar scent.

He went completely still.

“What are you hiding in here from?”

Slowly he turned around to find Arethe regarding him with cool amusement. Gaston’s mouth went dry and he swallowed back a sour taste.

“Nothing.”

He didn’t offer any further explanation. She didn’t ask, not interested. Arethe moved closer and he held his ground, though he dropped his head down and avoided meeting her wild yellow eye.

Arethe was smirking as she reached him and stroked the side of his neck.

The distraction was tempting. Mostly though he felt ill and impatient. It wasn’t a good time, he decided. “I’m not in the mood, Arethe,” he sighed.

She acted like she didn’t hear him. Stepping in so their chests pressed together she ran hands possessively over his muscles, pressing down hard. She kissed his jaw in a way more like she was gently gnawing at his skin.

Gaston twisted his head away, grunting in annoyance.

“I’m serious. Not now.”

Arethe gave a sound of dismissal. She stepped in again – shoving at him this time. He went to catch her forearms, grappling with her, but he wasn’t remotely prepared for how fast she moved or how sudden and strong her next action was.

She pushed him down to the cave’s floor and sat atop him before he could react. Straddling him at the waist, bracing her whole weight against his body.

“Get off of me,” Gaston ground out beneath clenched teeth, as affronted as he was caught off-guard.

Arethe was sneering, face twisted up with silent laughter around her scar. She was pulling at the front of his vest, sinking further onto her knees, into him. Seeming perfectly comfortable exactly where she was.

He tried pushing her off. It was trickier than it should’ve been with his prone position. Every time he moved Arethe blocked him or shifted her hips and torso to maintain balance.

“Enough,” he protested. “No. Stop. I said, get off me!”

In indignation he put his strength into it, not caring if he knocked her over in the process – but it was like hitting a wall. His breath caught in his throat as he stared up at her in disbelief.

She was tall and sturdy for a woman, yes, but he must’ve had seventy pounds on her at least. It should’ve been easy to take her when he held nothing back.

But she was _loup-garou_. She had the strength of a monster. And it came over him that the greater control she had, the experience, her status as pack leader – it made a huge difference.

He wasn’t going to be able to move her. He wasn’t going to be able to stop her by force.

And so far, it didn’t look like she was going to stop herself.

“No,” Gaston said again, louder. “Get off – _get off_!”

She bent forward, claws encircling his belt buckle, and it finally gave him the opening to kick upwards, hard, costing her stability and successfully hurling her aside. She fell to the ground and he scrambled away, staring at her aghast.

Would she really have just _kept going_ no matter what he said to her? Did she not even care?

Arethe straightened, sat back on her hands and saw how he gaped at her, his breathing ragged, lying in the dirt with his hair an unruly mess.

She laughed, like it was all a game.

“I told you!” She shook her head. “You will never have your full power until you learn to become one with the wolf. Until then, _my mate-_ ” she showed her fangs in a smug leer “-I will always be stronger than you.”

Arethe stood, dusted herself off, and left.

Gaston sat there alone in the cave, silence ringing around him. Unsure what had happened he stared into nothing, shaking with disbelief.

*

Belle and her husband spent an entire week in an idyllic pleasure that in her opinion every pair of newlyweds should enjoy – cloistered together within a library.

There was a point however where even the most fascinating books and the most spirited debates in adoring company threatened to get lose their charms. In the name of not growing frustrated or bored with one another for a time, she and Adam took a short break.

Soon though Belle was forced to admit it seemed marriage, and love, had turned her into one of those people who’d a hard time being apart from their partner. It was an unexpected development though not unpleasant.

She would’ve felt more embarrassed for not where it was clear he felt the same. Indeed if anything Adam had it worse, positively smitten, and it was up to her to be the voice of reason reminding him there could be “too much of a good thing” even in love.

Not that her _reason_ ever held out for very long. She wondered if this overwhelming attraction owed to their relationship’s relatively new vintage – or was this simply how they were? Would they grow more indolent on attending to one another as the years passed?

She found that inwardly she hoped not.

Belle managed all of an entire day apart, able to distract herself for part of one day more by spending a long morning in bed working on ideas and sketches for her inventions. After that however she gave in to what she knew she really wanted, and summoned a lady-in-waiting so she could dress and go down to join her husband at last.

The ritual of palace living didn’t entirely suit her restless nature, it was true, but she’d grown used to it with a minimum of sighs and impatience. She was still testing the waters, where and when she pushed the limits of what others called “decorum” and what she considered pointless ceremony at best, something that actively confined and belittled women at worst.

Adam found her hunger for change invigorating and endearing, happy to give her anything she wanted. The servants however could be left quite at a loss by Belle’s rebellions. It was more for their sake than anything she was learning to pick her battles.

She permitted herself to be escorted down the staircase on the arm of a manservant despite she could certainly walk alone, and by now she knew how to find her way around the castle.

As they went Belle glanced over at the well-dressed man. He looked directly ahead, every inch the dutiful and emotionless butler.

Though perhaps nothing remarkable about him Belle knew better: she’d seen him time and time again, almost as central to the castle staff as someone like Lumiere or Mrs. Potts. He seemed to be everywhere exactly when he was needed but without ever doing a thing to call attention to himself. Belle was fairly certain while the curse had been ongoing he had been a coatrack.

She also didn’t think in the time since, she’d heard him utter so much as a word.

She cleared her throat. At once his head turned, attentive and patiently obedient.

“I don’t know how to phrase this more politely,” she remarked, “so you’ll have to forgive me. But Chapeau, you aren’t a mute, are you?”

She’d a feeling the wry half-smile he gave in response was a rare occurrence.

“Not at all, Madam,” he assured her. “It’s only uncommon I have much to say.”

“I see.” She smiled back, meeting his eye with more candor and warmth she knew than a lady of the station she now held would typically bestow on a servant.

Chapeau bore with it grace. By now they were all well-acquainted with Belle’s _oddities_.

“Well, it’s good to clear that up. Thank you.”

“Indeed.” He brought her to the entrance to one of the drawing rooms and bowed. “Here you are, my lady.”

“Very good, Chapeau. Thank you again.”

Belle walked into the room and at once Adam fairly leapt out of his chair to approach her.

“Belle!” Delighted, he held her by the elbows and kissed her cheek. “You have decided to grace us with your presence after all today it seems.”

“Well when I had spoken of the necessity of needing time to myself I admit I hadn’t thought ahead to just what I was to _do_ with that time,” Belle joked in response.

She held his gaze, drinking in the familiar yet still wonderful sight of his face. Her lashes fluttered slightly as she reached to tug one of his hands into her own.

“I missed you,” she admitted, gently.

“I’m glad that you changed your mind,” he responded in as soft and intimate a tone.

There was a cleared throat from elsewhere in the room and Belle looked up to realize both Maestro Cadenza and Madame de Garderobe were present and watching them, beaming in an amused fashion.

“Oh…” Belle pulled away from Adam slightly so she could better acknowledge them, sheepish. “Good afternoon. I’m so sorry, I didn’t-”

“Yes, yes, we noticed.” Cadenza smirked with indulgence and shot a knowing look to his wife.

She gave a romantic sigh, fanning herself with the hand that wasn’t rested on her small dog.

“Ah, _mio amore!_ Do you remember those days: to be young and in love, having no eyes for anyone but they you are devoted to the most?”

“I still have eyes for none but you when you are near to me, my beloved.”

“Too true. And I for you, Maestro – only for you.”

“Always,” he assured her as they looked at one another, smitten; she likewise repeated to him “Always.”

Belle repressed a giggle even as she was touched by recurring proof of their devotion. Maybe indeed it was possible to be together for a lifetime and remain as in love as when it first began.

As if he was reading her mind Adam gave an affectionate squeeze to her shoulder.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Belle said.

“No, no, not at all,” he replied. “The Maestro wanted to give a little preview of a piece he’s working on.”

“Indeed.” Walking to the harpsichord the older man tapped a few keys, checking it was still in tune. He made a sound that, by familiarity with him, Belle knew was the result of idly licking the side of his false teeth. “I hope to have it finished and polished up to perfection in time for the winter.”

Adam chortled. “Knowing you, Maestro, you’ll have it finished long before that.”

“I said ‘perfection’, your grace.” He made a passionate gesture with one hand, shaking it in the air. “True, true, I can compose well enough with…decent speed, and dedication. But for _ha grande festa straordinaria_ this… _this_ must be a _pièce de résistance!_ Nothing less will do.”

“Nothing you craft with your art could be anything less, Maestro,” Madame de Garderobe simpered. “Especially if you will it to be.”

Frou-Frou gave a little yap, as if chiming in with agreement.

“We’ll make it the highlight of a concert in your honor during the Christmas feast,” Adam promised him.

He glanced to Belle where she stood beside him, his arms now draped around her waist.

“I assume we’ll be having a Christmas feast, or something of the like, during the holidays. Or am I getting ahead of myself?”

“No, that sounds perfectly fine,” she said, trying not to laugh. For all he protested now he was a man of more modest tastes and less vanity, she noticed his flair for the dramatic still manifested itself in ways. He couldn’t seem to resist an excuse to throw a party for people he knew and cared about.

Anyway, the Christmas holiday was months away. There was plenty of time to prepare, and resign herself to whatever happened, if it came to that.

“In any case,” he leaned in so he could speak more intimately, “enough about that. What about you, my dear? Have you been up to anything of interest since we saw each other last?”

“When we saw each other last was less than forty-eight hours ago,” she reminded him, smiling.

“Does it matter? You know I find everything about you positively fascinating,” he said, tone halfway between joking and serious. This time Belle did laugh. She had to, if only for a moment.

“As a matter of fact, there was a new idea I was working on. I’d a few thoughts, really, but there was one that I did feel might hold some promise…”

“What was it?”

“It – you know what, I’ll get my sketchbook,” she decided. “It’ll be far easier to explain with the picture in front of us. Wait here for me, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course not.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Without bothering to summon a servant she hurried off, mounting the steps this time with skirts gathered by the fistful to keep them out of her way.

She got lucky in that she crossed paths with no one to display alarm or fuss over her, the whole way back to her rooms where she retrieved the sketches from her bed. With as much staff as the castle had she knew she was unlikely to be so fortunate a second time.

Belle was in no mood now to be coddled or delayed, so she crept down the hall and used the hidden staircase instead normally designated for the servants’ use only.

It would put her in a different part of the castle, further away from where Adam waited on her return. But she felt the extra time would be worth it ultimately if it meant she reached her destination uninterrupted.

Trying to carry on in her usual free-spirited outspoken fashion in this environment required some creativity at times.

Belle walked down one hallway, rounded a corner, began making her way through another. A pair of voices drifted from an open door and despite herself she stopped to listen.

“Well, I’m happy for you, dear. This sounds like nothing but good news to me.”

That was unmistakably Mrs. Potts’ voice, speaking with fondness and confidence. It was who responded however that caught Belle’s curiosity and held it fast.

“Oh, I never said I didn’t think that it was,” said LeFou. “It was just so unexpected!”

“Unexpected to none but you, perhaps. I’m not surprised. I’m not so old or married a woman to not know a prize any’d be happy to scoop up when I see one.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Nonsense. But back to it. You’re going to see him, then? Do you want to?”

“Yeah, I think I do.” LeFou laughed in a breathy way. “I _know_ I do, actually. I’m not ready to jump right in, yet…”

“Of course. You’ve had a trying time of it, love. That’s fine. You’re only human.”

“Right, yeah.” There was a pause. “But anyway, I think I’m finally ready to just be _happy_ again. Or, near enough, anyway.”

“It means something you’re ready to attempt it. Time is the only thing that can heal certain wounds, I’m afraid. We have to be willing to let it pass. To keep ourselves occupied in the meantime.”

“I’ve been trying. It’s not always easy.”

“No. It’s not. It’s wonderful though you think you’re about ready to let your heart move on. Try something new.”

“I have…I have a really good feeling about this, Mrs. Potts,” he confessed. “I worry that I’m getting ahead of myself. But this is the first that I’ve actually looked forward to something in so long. Does that sound odd?”

“Not in the slightest.” Belle knew what the older woman’s voice sounded like by now when she was smiling.

“Anyway,” he went on after another moment, “I hate to cut and run, but I should probably be going. And I’m sure you’ve work to catch up on, so-”

“That is the truth of it, unfortunately. But this was a lovely interruption. I do so enjoy our little chats.”

“Me too. Thank you, again, for having me.”

“It’s my pleasure. Take some of the biscuits with you, why don’t you?”

“Oh no, no, I couldn’t. I mean, I shouldn’t. But thanks for offering…”

Belle came back to herself mentally, with an abrupt start: she realized she was standing in a part of the castle where she technically shouldn’t be, and eavesdropping on a conversation that while fascinating was on reflection obviously personal enough she _really_ shouldn’t have.

Regrettably she only had a moment to get ahold of herself and take a step back before she looked up and LeFou was standing right there, Mrs. Potts hovering behind his shoulder.

“Belle,” LeFou blurted in reflexive surprise, staring.

“Hello,” Belle returned, just as short and ineloquent.

They goggled at each other. Mrs. Potts watched with eyebrows raised, gaze slowly moving between them.

“I-I mean…!” LeFou colored and stammered and he made an awkward gesture: trying to bow and uncertain how deep he should go. “Your highness…er, your excellence-!”

“Oh no, please, don’t,” Belle begged. “Don’t address me by a title or anything of the sort. I couldn’t stand it.”

It was odd enough with people she _almost_ enjoyed lording over, like the Headmaster and Clothilde, suddenly talking to her as if they hadn’t been part of the same village for most her life. Being treated with respect was one thing but this was for all the wrong reasons.

LeFou gave up his attempts with uncertain relief. “Admittedly it would be kind of weird, now. Since we’ve at least known _of_ each other since we were children.”

“Exactly,” Belle said, relieved.

There was another stilted pause. Belle gave a smile, but his responding expression looked forced.

She cleared her throat. “This isn’t the first visit you’ve paid the castle these past months, is it, Monsieur LeFou.”

“Uh – no?”

“To see Mrs. Potts, and the other friends you’ve made among the servants, I mean. But the whole time _I_ don’t think I’ve caught more than a glimpse of you.”

His tone changed. “Well. Probably not.”

“And when I’ve gone back to the village on occasion,” Belle continued, “you always contrive never to be seen there as well. Would it be fair to say…that you are avoiding me?”

By now LeFou was staring at the toes of his shoes. “Maybe,” he mumbled.

She tried to make her smile as gentle and encouraging as she could. “You’ve already apologized.”

“I know.” He was still avoiding looking at her.

“And you were told there were no hard feelings,” she reminded him.

Mrs. Potts had retreated some distance away, suddenly having found a vase she needed to polish with intense scrutiny.

LeFou sighed, keeping gaze down. “I know,” he repeated. “But…”

“But?” Belle prompted.

“It still…I still _feel_ sorry. It still doesn’t feel right.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Belle said patiently. “You were only-”

“I should’ve been able to stop what happened,” he blurted. His eyes finally sought her out. “Me maybe more than anyone. Instead I _did nothing_. Because of me – heck, you could have died, in the chaos! The Prince should have died. And your father…”

He trailed off, looking sick.

“Papa said he forgives you, too. I was there when he told you.”

Indeed, where her father was more begrudging than Belle regarding most of the village, LeFou he’d been relatively swift to absolve.

Having heard several accounts of what happened in the tavern, she’d no difficulty understanding why. Mistakes could be sympathized with when you watched someone actively struggle in the process of making them.

“I know.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I shouldn’t be forgiven for that, either. I never should have lied.”

“Because Gaston would have been so easily stopped at that point.” She was unable to avoid cold sarcasm, given the subject.

LeFou swallowed heavily. “Maybe it’s not that I think I could’ve actually made a difference,” he confessed, voice feeble. “It’s just…I didn’t try. It’s what I come back to, again and again. I didn’t even _try_.”

He looked away, pressing his hand over his face. Belle moved in closer, wanting to put a hand on his shoulder but worried that would make him more uncomfortable.

This was why she couldn’t stay angry, in the end. Watching people suffer as they displayed their remorse. To say they deserved it would make her feel a crueler person than she hoped she was. Especially when it came to someone like LeFou, who perhaps stood guilty ultimately only of loving too much, and the wrong person.

He wouldn’t be the first love made a fool out of. He’d hardly be the last.

After he’d gotten ahold of himself he managed to look back at her. His eyes were shining behind a few stray curls that’d fallen into his gaze. He looked distraught, and so very lost.

“I never should have left Maurice tied to that tree. You can say whatever you want, but I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive _myself_ for that. I can’t believe I didn’t know that was the moment where everything started to go wrong. I thought I was a better person than that. I…” He entreated with her: “I wanted to go back, Belle. I kept saying it to myself, over and over. Really I did.”

She could’ve told him, again, that she believed him. That she forgave him.

Curiosity got the better of her.

“Why didn’t you?”

He flinched in response. His smile miserable, he gave a weak chuckle.

“Because I was trying to convince _Gaston_ to go back with me, too. And he wouldn’t do it.” He sucked in a breath. “And it literally didn’t occur to me that I could go on my own. Gaston and I had left him out there, so clearly we could only get him as a team. I knew no other option. Sad, right?”

Belle didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t. LeFou frowned.

“I’m pathetic.”

“You are absolutely not,” she rebuked him. “You’re a caring person and a loyal friend. It’s not your fault someone else used your attachment poorly. That is on _him_. Not you.”

LeFou met her insistence with a wavering, humorless grin.

“At the very least,” he said, “I’m guilty of being a bad judge of character. Aren’t I?”

“Maybe.” Belle tried not to sound too bitter. “But we both know you’re in good company there.”

Most in Villeneuve would’ve considered that an on-the-nose and therefore inappropriate thing to say.

Instead of looking scandalized or bothered, however, LeFou twisted his face in a manner that suggested were he in a better mood he’d be giving a wry smirk.

Though Belle hadn’t been born in Villeneuve she felt she might as well have been. Papa brought them there when she was young enough she scarcely remembered anything else. But they’d never really fit in.

Papa was anything but a proud man, but his manner was decidedly different from the locals. And he’d always been fearful for Belle’s well-being, over-protective, especially when she was little. The village children were practically set to run wild through the streets – their parents had too much work to do, and knew any neighbor would keep an eye on them. Belle for the most part was let no further than the garden gate, given books and handmade toys, tutored at her father’s knee.

Belle was willful from the start. Even so by the time she was old enough to argue with her father, and he’d learned to relax his guard...it was too late. The boys were at school or learning their fathers’ trades, the girls were already being groomed to act like future ladies. They’d formed their friendships, and no one had use for a girl that wanted to climb trees and knew how to read. She thought the boys were ridiculous, throwing rocks and spitting on one another. She thought the other girls were ridiculous too, all they ever wanted to do was sit and play with dolls.

She never made friends. She remained an outsider. And some people, she had to admit, she’d never gotten to know at all. Certainly not like she should know somebody she’d been living in the same town as for so many years.

LeFou was one. Months ago Belle would’ve described him as “that man who follows Gaston around”. She was so busy avoiding her ghastly suitor she never spared thought for the familiar face trailing in his footsteps.

It made her cringe now. Overlooking people was a sin she’d accuse the smallminded villagers of, but here was proof she could be as shallow. Once she started paying attention she realized LeFou was hardworking and kindhearted - even witty, in his own way. In every memory she had, looking back she found someone close to her age who’d been funny and observant and helpful and jovial.

In short, someone she could have potentially been friends with. Someone that she could’ve gotten on with all along.

There was nothing to do now but try learning from her mistake.

“LeFou,” she began, “I’ve realized that you and I have gotten on the wrong foot. Truth is we never knew each other very well, did we? And now our strongest association has to do with such a horrible set of circumstances.”

He deflated slightly, looking tired. “Right.”

“I don’t like it, any more I suspect than you do. If it’s all the same, I’d like to set that aside. We could make a fresh start.”

“That…that would be nice. Yeah. I’d like that.”

Belle smiled, hopeful. “Maybe, if you were interested, we could even try and be friends.”

LeFou stared. “Really?” he went after a moment, slow.

As answer Belle held out her hand to him. LeFou stared at that, then, for another pause.

Then with a small incredulous smile he reached out and took it. Belle beamed as they shook on it.

“To new beginnings?” she offered.

His grin spread across his face in a wider, warmer fashion as he enthused, “To new friends.”

Belle walked him to the gate. They were accompanied by Mrs. Potts, who’d returned in a timely fashion.

As Belle watched them exchange farewells she found herself trying to remember how long it had been since LeFou had a mother.

Long enough, she determined, it didn’t surprise her when he let Mrs. Potts pull him into a hug as part of their goodbye.

“Now you be careful,” Mrs. Potts fussed, fixing his hair as they pulled apart. “It’s a long way back to the village. Are you certain you want to be walking alone?”

“Yes,” Belle chimed in, “if you waited I could find one of the castle guards to accompany you-”

“Relax.” LeFou brushed off their concerns, albeit politely. He tugged his coat aside to show a hunting knife on his belt. “I may not look it but I know how to take care of myself. Fought in a war, remember?”

“A pistol might serve you better,” Mrs. Potts murmured. He swallowed, paling slightly.

“You’re probably right. But I haven’t touched a gun since – well. That night.”

Belle tried not to grimace.

But of course, she thought. Gaston had been a hunter: guns were his weapon of choice. And it’d been a pistol he wielded when he tried to take Adam’s life. Probably every time LeFou saw one his thought would be of those years at his friend’s side, their battles in the war, their days out hunting.

She wondered how many even otherwise innocuous things had been tainted for a time, for LeFou, because of their association.

“Just be careful,” Mrs. Potts repeated, brow furrowing with worry she couldn’t quite dismiss. “They say they’ve been hearing wolves howling out there at night.”

Belle balked. “The same pack of wolves that were here during the curse?”

“I couldn’t say, dear. All I know is there’re those that claim they’ve heard them. A few have said to see them too.”

“Surely they would’ve moved on, soon as they were able?” Belle wondered aloud, dismissive.

She looked to the woods.

“There’s not much game this close to the castle. What could possibly be keeping them here?”

*

Five days. Five more days was what Gaston managed, before he could finally tear himself away.

He’d wanted to go sooner. He’d wanted to go every moment. Every time he looked around and saw the beaten-down faces of the others, heard them grunt like animals rather than speak; watched them eat raw meat and bones as they wandered around following Arethe’s will mindlessly without desire for anything else.

But he needed to ensure he could make a clean break. That he’d be able to get far as he could before the others realized he wasn’t returning.

It was night again. The pack split up. It’d been hard finding larger prey lately. The wolves were getting antsy and their leader was impatient.

The she-wolf growled, good as telling them all to get lost. They went off in pairs or individually, trying to find something to hunt.

The black wolf slunk off quickly before any of the others could join him.

They didn’t glance his way twice. Nothing about his behavior seemed odd to them. They were used to his restless wandering, his attempts to hunt on his own.

But soon as he was far enough, out of sight and out of range of smell, he started to run.

_Prey,_ the wolf said. _Food._

_Village,_ Gaston countered. _Home. Now._

The wolf wanted to hunt. But it would settle, begrudgingly, for a good run.

So he ran. He ran and he ran, never stopping, never breaking his stride. He ran through the night, into the morning, into the afternoon.

His sides heaved and his stomach was empty. The heat of the sun clung to his fur. His ribs hurt and he followed the road and the wolf was very, very unhappy.

He didn’t dare slow down because it might take over and turn right back the way he came.

He only had to make it to Villeneuve. The pack never came this way, the wolves never dared wander close to civilization. Instinct kept them at bay. Yes, if he could just make it to Villeneuve. Then he’d be safe.

Everything would be fine.

Hours and hours passed.

The black wolf was panting. His coat was dirty, his paws sore. He wanted water. He was starving and tired.

But he kept running. He no longer remembered _why_ but – desperately he clung to some sense of focus. Even as wolf instinct, mindless comfort tried to take over, he kept reminding himself that _he had to keep going_.

There was a reason; he no longer remembered it, but there was one. It was very important.

He was going somewhere. He would reach it if he kept following this trail.

The longer his journey lasted the more confused he got, the more anxious.

The wolf wanted the safety of the woods, the security of the pack. It didn’t understand why he was doing this. Where he was going. It didn’t make sense.

But he had to. _He had to._ Run and run and run. Keep going. Follow the scent. Almost there.

He was searching for something and when he found it he would be there. Where he needed to be. Where he wanted to be. Where things would be better. His mind was murky but this part was insistent: _yes, better._

The black wolf ran. He ran and he ran. Chasing that something down with a desperation he could no longer name.

*

Though it was getting late the sun was still bright as LeFou got closer to Villeneuve.

He was taking his time, in truth, following a familiar longer way. One that cut out of the woods up into the hills before coming straight down into the village, and his house towards the edge of town.

Most of the villagers were nervous about leaving the limits. Thinking all manner of disaster would befall them. They might visit an outside farm or go for the occasional hunt, and even for those trips they’d shore themselves up beforehand as if they were heading right off the map. Actual trips to other towns were rare.

The average citizen would be born there, grow old and die there. It was entirely possible they might never go more than a mile away from the village square.

When he was a boy LeFou never could’ve expected he’d become an oddity in that regard: part of the small number of mostly men who would borrow a cart or ride a horse to other bigger cities for market fairs or other business on the somewhat regular.

But he was. He’d left for war, gone away for over a year, seen more of France than many of his neighbors would care to imagine, even if it was mostly mud and countryside.

The woods didn’t really scare him. He knew to be cautious out there, on his guard. But there was nothing truly _unknown_ about it to him. It had lost the power to rile up his imagination and have him jumping at shadows the way it still did for most.

On the contrary, he knew how beautiful it could be. The stillness of nature, the peaceful quiet. The scent of open air as the breeze blew. The way that life went on at a steady unhurried pace: never changing dramatically but never staying the same, plants and animals following the same predictable habits.

LeFou walked along with an absent smile, relaxed, in a good mood. Things had been going undeniably _well_ lately. These past few weeks, he woke up happy more than he didn’t. He’d plenty to keep busy both in the manner of work and his social life.

Villeneuve was prospering with the castle’s presence to gain from again. Everyone in town was more cheerful and optimistic than they’d been in years.

And LeFou felt like he fit in with those cheerful people. He had his place and friends and almost every day felt just a little better than the last. The future was promising and he was looking forward to it.

Following the edge of the trees to keep in the shade, he walked parallel to the village, tracing a dry gulley that served as makeshift path around the worst of the uneven terrain and roots. He was whistling to himself, a jaunty tune.

His thoughts wandered to nothing in particular and he carried on that way for some time, content.

That was until he paid attention enough to hear his own whistling. And realized what song it was.

_“No one fights like Gaston, douses lights like Gaston…”_

It seemed some habits died harder than most.

LeFou stopped whistling abruptly, and stopped walking. He stood there in the woods – the woods he only knew so well because of all those hunting trips, right down to the route he currently followed – and melancholy overcame him. His shoulders slumped as he struggled to breathe around the lump of sorrow that suddenly formed in his throat.

Was it always going to be like this? He’d go on until out of nowhere the smallest thing might remind him, and then he’d be overcome by fresh pain?

He tried to be strong. He tried to remind himself of the reasons he had to move on.

But two months simply wasn’t enough. He was still mourning his closest friend.

LeFou hated to admit the extent of it. But he was like a tree that’d grown shaped around a rock; the entire path of his existence, every part of him formed by his relationship with Gaston.

Now that rock was gone. And he was left with this undeniably present hole at the center of his being.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think he could carry on. He knew he could. But in the meantime he struggled, missing what wasn’t there, trying to figure out how to live his life until he learned to reshape himself.

The sun was still bright but now it felt overbearing rather than pleasant. The quiet of the woods seemed empty rather than soothing.

LeFou put one foot in front of the other, head down, arms hanging at his sides. His body felt heavy. He fought back a sniffle as he exhaled.

He walked this way for a distance, struggling with his feelings, the conflicted memories threatening to swarm him. When he caught a bright flash out of the corner of his eye – his first thought was it had to be his imagination.

His grief was getting the better of him. He was seeing things that weren’t there.

LeFou looked down at where he saw what looked like a scrap of dark red leather poking out of the dirt.

He scrambled over and hunched down, digging with his hands, tugging the object free. Within seconds he had it in his grip: a long red huntsman’s coat.

LeFou choked as he looked at it, shocked to his core. _He knew this coat._ There was no mistaking it. The buttons alone, never mind that distinct color…

He turned it over as he examined what’d become of such a finely-made, once treasured garment. Exposure to the elements had done it no favors. It wasn’t just that the seams were worn, though, or the way the brass of the buttons had faded. There were dark stains inside and out that he had too much experience not to recognize as blood. And as he ran his hands down the sleeves, he found ragged tears that ended in sharp punctures – teeth marks.

He stood there holding the coat away from his body, numbly looking at it, not sure how to describe what he was feeling. It was so strong he couldn’t think. He couldn’t really move.

Until he heard the faint crunch of a stick breaking, somewhere off to his left. Slowly LeFou turned his head.

There within charging distance from him stood what had to be the most massive wolf he’d ever seen.

Its fur was completely black, dark as a starless night sky. Dirt and leaves covered its body, four big paws planted evenly apart. It breathed heavily from an open maw showing long fangs that glistened with spit. Its eyes were pure, haunting yellow and they were staring right at him.

LeFou gulped uneasily as he stared back. At first it was too sudden for him to feel properly afraid, the emotion only sluggishly emerging.

Then for some reason he found himself looking away, looking down at what he still held in his hands: Gaston’s ruined coat, covered in what was probably _his_ blood, fabric torn by the teeth of some animal. In that moment it clicked for him, that teeth the shape and size to leave those marks were a perfect match for those in the mouth of the wolf.

In the next moment – fear was shoved aside, as he seemed to go a bit insane.

“Was it you?” he demanded. Rage born out of grief twisted his features. “Did you find Gaston that night, underneath the castle?”

The coat now hung only from one hand. The other drew his hunting knife, brandishing it in the wolf’s direction as he stepped forward, shouting.

“Are you the reason no one ever found a body? Did you make sure nothing was left? Dragged off what you didn’t eat into the woods, and buried it here?”

The wolf’s ears went back and a shudder seemed to pass through its form. LeFou barely noticed. He kept spitting his accusations, knife never wavering as he pointed it.

“Was he already gone when you got there, or did you finish him off? Helpless, injured, unable to fight as you closed in – was my friend _still alive_ when you started _to eat him?”_

He might have kept going. He might have even lunged forward.

Honestly, he had no idea what he might’ve done. What he wanted to do next.

Before he could do anything, the wolf shook itself and twisted and its body rippled. Right before his eyes it erupted upwards, reshaping into a man – into Gaston, who flung an arm out LeFou’s direction and gasped, “Wait!”

LeFou screamed.

He wished he could’ve described the sound differently. A bellow, perhaps, or a shout. Something more inherently manly.

But no, there was only one honest description for the sound he made as he watched a giant wolf explode into the form of his dead friend. It was a scream, a rather high and shrill one too, made of pure unanticipated existential fright.

LeFou screamed, and he flailed backwards, dropping both the knife and the coat.

Gaston’s arm stayed raised, palm flat towards him, beseeching. He stared at LeFou wide-eyed.

“Wait,” he repeated, his voice uneven and rough.

LeFou stared right back at him. He didn’t think his own eyes had ever been open nearly so big.

“…G-Gaston?” he stammered in a small voice, mouth agape.

He took a half-step towards LeFou and stopped, gaze drifting out of focus. He didn’t look like he knew what he was doing. LeFou glanced down and saw Gaston’s legs were shaking with the effort of keeping him upright.

“I…” His mouth opened. He swallowed with consternation, looking as if he’d forgotten the words.

LeFou had known Gaston since they were children. He’d seen him in a lot of moods and circumstances. But he didn’t think he’d ever seen him like this.

He was still wearing the clothes he’d been that night, minus the red coat. They were wrinkled and covered in grime, vest fastened together crookedly, boots caked in mud. His hair was a mess. His skin was sallow, bags under his eyes, his facial hair grown out into a full beard. If they had buried him, LeFou would have assumed he clawed his way out of the grave. It would’ve been perfect for how he appeared.

Even beneath his shock and fear LeFou felt a twinge of concern. But he didn’t move any closer.

Gaston shook his head, eyes too glazed to blink.

“It was…harder than I thought,” he said, disjointed, “to get away. But I had to…to…” He looked over his shoulder, then around them, not seeming to know where he was.

He sank down onto one knee, then the other.

“Not sure what to do now. I have to, I need help, I…I need…”

He breathed heavily as his gaze fell on him in recognition.

“LeFou! I need your help,” he rasped. “I can’t do this alone. It’s too much, I didn’t realize. It’s too…too…”

LeFou held his breath. He took in the situation playing out before him in disbelief.

Gaston knelt on the ground, staring up at him. As LeFou watched he lifted his arm again and reached for him with one hand.

“LeFou,” Gaston pleaded, “help me.”

LeFou felt as if the air was knocked right out of him.

Gaston was supposed to be dead. It had been two months, he had done and said all those things, LeFou still missed him, _he was supposed to be dead_. Unless he was hallucinating Gaston had been _wolf_ just a few minutes ago and now he was kneeling right there, looking like that, and saying _that_ to him.

His head was spinning.

Gaston was still watching him with hope and desperation.

And from somewhere deep inside a tiny, nasty voice urged him to go _“Sorry, old friend”_ – and walk away.

He breathed in through his nose, trying to clear his head. What was it they said – even a man pure of heart, who said his prayers by night, might become a wolf when the autumn moon was bright? A fairy tale sounding rhyme meant to contain a dire warning: that it changed people from who they’d been. It made them dangerous, it made them monsters.

Except LeFou knew for a fact Gaston hadn’t been to Sunday mass in ten years, and he doubted he was in the habit of praying.

And with everything that’d happened, could he ever suppose Gaston had been pure of heart to begin with?

His gaze flicked aside, wandering to where his hunting knife still lay.

He went to it. Bent down, retrieved the weapon, felt the weight of the handle in his hand.

Then he returned it to its sheath on his belt.

Picking up the red coat LeFou came over to where Gaston was, draping it carefully around his shoulders. Despite the heat the other man was still trembling.

“Sure, Gaston,” he said quietly. “I’ll help. Let’s go home.”

He took hold of one arm and tugged him, firm and gentle, to his feet. He let the taller man lean against him as they started to walk together. Silently LeFou led the way.

Glancing over he saw that Gaston’s free hand was clutching the side of the coat, as if for reassurance.

He vaguely remembered once hearing a story about a man who had been cursed to take the form of a wolf and roam the countryside, but when his own clothes were given back to him and thrown over his body it cured him. It saved him from the curse.

However LeFou wasn’t about to get his hopes up. He had a sinking, solid feeling that where Gaston was concerned, it was already far too late.


	3. like some child possessed the beast howls in my veins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Ain’t much I can do but I do what I can  
> but I’m not a fool there’s no need to pretend  
> and just because you got yourself in some shit  
> it doesn’t mean I have to come deal with it
> 
> you handle your own when you become a man  
> and become a man when you handle your own  
> ain’t much I can do but I do what I can  
> but what can I do if I do till it’s gone?” 
> 
> \- yelawolf, “till it’s gone”

Gaston slept deeply that night.

He dreamed, perhaps, but the type of dreaming that served no purpose; only to remind one they were sound asleep.

A comforting journey of sleep rather than a concrete destination. Disjointed feelings, reality safely at bay - so far it couldn’t be remembered, unable to reach out and touch and worry and claw.

He was falling, slowly, into a dark abyss. Unlike the past months however the feeling of falling didn’t strike mortal terror into him. He knew he was slipping into comfort and safety, the darkness not there to swallow him whole but wrap him up, keep him warm.

It was soothing. A welcome relief from restless night after restless night. It felt like coming home.

In the morning he awoke face-down in a pillow, wrapped in blankets, faint sour taste in his mouth and hair tangled in his eyes. He still had his clothes on except for his boots and vest. He blinked slowly, eyes heavy with the grit of sleep.

Or actual grit, possibly. He was aware of the film on his skin made of dirt and sweat. Grimacing, he made sense of his surroundings.

It didn’t take long for him to recognize where he was.

How many nights had he passed out at LeFou’s home when he didn’t feel like staggering back to his own? They both lived at the very edges of Villeneuve, but almost the opposite ones. Gaston’s house bordered the woods and was a long walk away from the center of town after a full day hunting or an equally busy night at the tavern.

He was even used to falling asleep in this very bed, since LeFou only had one and always gladly surrendered it to his friend while he slept on the couch.

He almost didn’t need to see the furniture and walls to identify the place, though. Even with eyes closed he could smell the familiar scents of humanity, of simple country living. Dried goods in the pantry and lacquer on the wood floors and from outside the mixture of garden soil and animal feed. The sheets had been washed recently – LeFou threw some herbal concoction in there that gave off a faint but distinct fresh, green smell.

Gaston smiled as he rubbed his face against the pillow. He’d made it. He was home free. Arethe and her wolves and their cursed lawless life would never reach him now.

His ordeal was over. Everything was going to be fine.

Opening his eyes fully he discovered LeFou in a wooden chair that he’d pulled towards the bedside, not directly next to it but close. He was sitting there silently, hands on his knees, as if he’d been watching over Gaston while he slept.

“Good morning,” he said, slowly.

Gaston yawned before responding in kind, “Good morning.”

As he sat up, scrubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm, LeFou looked at him moment before he went, almost delicately, “How did you sleep?”

“Well enough.”

“Did – ah, did you want some breakfast?”

“Maybe in a while.”

He needed to wake up more before he felt his appetite. His body was still heavy, almost numb with sleep. He yawned again, stretching out his arms.

“Ah, I _needed_ that. Thank you, old friend.” Trying to straighten his hair he gave LeFou a toothy grin. “Nothing like a good night’s rest in a familiar bed, eh?”

LeFou didn’t laugh at his little inside joke. The smile he gave in return was thin and lopsided.

Biting back disappointed annoyance Gaston took a better look at his face and realized though he’d changed his clothes, LeFou had shadows under his eyes and didn’t seem to have shaved yet.

Perhaps he hadn’t slept so well, himself. A shame. But it would explain his odd mood.

Gaston decided to go back a step. “I’ve missed you,” he told LeFou earnestly, reaching to give his upper arm a friendly squeeze.

It was true: he’d missed his life in Villeneuve dearly. And what was a bigger part of that life than the presence of his ever-dependable friend?

LeFou’s eyes widened as he looked where Gaston’s hand rested on his arm. It was another moment before he met Gaston’s gaze again.

“I missed you too,” he said, quiet and thick like he was having a hard time with his throat.

Smiling, Gaston patted his arm before withdrawing his hand. He sat up further, kicking the bedclothes halfway off as he rubbed a stiff spot in his shoulders.

He wasn’t truly paying attention to LeFou. Still from the corner of his eye he caught the other had a strange expression; that he tugged the scarf he wore with one finger, twisting his neck as if it was too tight.

After fussing this way for some time LeFou cleared his throat.

“Gaston,” he went, with an incredulous smile the other recognized: his reflex when he was suppressing uneasiness or panic. “Are you a werewolf now?”

Well. This was an unwelcome line of inquiry to be met with first thing in the morning.

Gaston’s face fell. He shot him a dark glare, then looked away again.

“On second thought, I could do with some breakfast after all.”

LeFou didn’t jump to the hint the way he usually would. When he remained silent, Gaston tried again.

“We can catch up later, surely,” he said, thin layer of geniality over impatience. “But right now I’m hungry.”

That forced smile LeFou was wearing grew stiffer. But despite the quake in his voice there was insistence in his tone that even Gaston couldn’t ignore.

“…Is there a reason you’re not answering the question?”

Gaston met LeFou’s eyes.

LeFou didn’t back down. He only raised his eyebrows, waiting.

Gaston exhaled a heavy sigh. Tilting his head back he shut his eyes once more.

He would’ve preferred to brush this off for long as possible, but so much for that.

Though, he supposed, considering the circumstances of their reunion…maybe he did owe LeFou a _bit_ of an explanation.

Scowling he tugged his shirt aside at the collar, baring his left shoulder. He turned enough so LeFou could see the scar: an almost perfect round mark left by very sharp fangs.

LeFou winced.

“There’s a pack of them out there. In the woods. They came for me that night, after I fell from the castle. I was barely conscious. I don’t really remember that part. But their leader…bit me. Turned me. She wanted me for her own.”

“She?” LeFou’s voice went up, as did his eyebrows again, drawing his own significance from that detail.

Gaston ignored that. He was not talking about Arethe. He’d never spend a moment thinking about her again.

“I didn’t choose this. It took some time for me to adjust to what’d happened.” He covered the mark, muttering, “I wouldn’t be alive if the change from the curse hadn’t healed my injuries.”

“So _that’s_ how you survived,” LeFou realized. “Because otherwise I would have thought...” He paused, struggling with where to begin. “Gaston…no one believed that you were still alive. You do realize, don’t you, that you’ve been gone for more than two whole months?”

“I would have been back sooner if I’d had any say in the matter.”

“Why didn’t you?” LeFou frowned.

How to even answer that question. Gaston hunched in on himself slightly, body language defensive.

“You asked for an explanation. I just gave you one.”

“An…an _explanation?_ ” LeFou spluttered. “You just told me that you’re not exactly _human_ anymore and now you think that’s enough to-”

He didn’t get a chance to finish because he’d said precisely the wrong thing.

Gaston’s eyes flashed in outrage. He made a fist and struck the mattress next to him hard enough the whole bed shook. Out of practice in dealing with his friend’s temper, LeFou leaned so far backward he gripped the chair underneath him for support.

“Don’t you dare say that,” he roared. “I _am_ human! I am! Nothing of significance about me, my character, has changed! I didn’t fight my way back here to be spoken of like this!”

LeFou recovered, best he could. “F-fought your way back? Fought _what?_ What happened to you?”

Some of his anger faded as he struggled to respond. “You don’t understand what it’s been like for me. I…I barely understand it myself…”

Having regained his balance LeFou considered him, carefully.

“All right, so. Talk me through it,” he tried, quiet but encouraging. “Help me help _you_ figure it out.”

Gaston drew a breath, slowly. Anyone else he would have refused but he saw the face of his lifelong friend, watching him intently – always eager to help him out, ready to understand him.

It felt impossible to deny him answers. Even as much as it pained him to delve into. As much as he would’ve rather already begun the process of trying to forget.

Looking away again he hung his head, raking fingers across his tangled hair.

“It’s not that I don’t know how long it’s been. But for me, the time has both felt like nothing and an eternity. I’ve spent more days as a wolf than a man. I – I think I was starting to forget.”

“Forget?” LeFou repeated uneasily.

“That I was ever anyone… _anything_ , else.” He shuddered. “It’s intoxicating, the change is. It’s almost like when I was at war and charged into battle. Everything else fades away. You focus only on the sensations, the moment. But I realized it was threatening to…overwhelm me.”

It was far from easy to admit that. Even to LeFou. Then again, these were far from normal circumstances.

“I ran from the others and what they were trying to do to me. They wanted me to be more like _them_ : wolves and nothing else.” Dropping his hands, he looked at LeFou again with intensity. “I had to come back, before I lost all sense of who I am. Before I forgot what it felt like to be a man.”

He gripped LeFou’s arm again, more tightly this time. The other man flinched but didn’t pull away.

“Even the journey here, finding my way back to the village, it took so much out of me. Thank God you were out there, LeFou, and we ran into each other.”

He gave a pained smile - trying to be his usual charismatic self, even with nerves frayed as they were. Trying to help LeFou see it his way.

“Who knows. You might have even saved my life,” he said enthusiastically, and he gave his arm another squeeze. “Seeing someone so familiar to me helped wake me up again.”

“That’s flattering, Gaston.” LeFou’s mouth opened and closed. “I have to ask, though. What do you think might have happened if I _hadn’t_ been there?”

“Who cares?” He shrugged. “The important part is that I’m back, now. Where I belong. And I know I’m stronger than any _loup-garou_ curse.”

Just saying it aloud gave him the confidence to believe it. But of course he was strong enough. He was Gaston. He’d made it back from the woods and become human again, hadn’t he? So what if he’d had a little help – it was only a sign that, like always, fate was on his side.

Fate was made to be on the side of men like him, the great and the daring. Leaders and warriors and heroes.

Drawing hands to his sides he smirked; and sneered, at the idea that any werewolves could overpower him. Only one night away and it was already being rewritten in his mind to an easier victory. The real fear and uncertainty he’d known losing its edge – trying to make it in align with how he preferred to think about things.

Gaston puffed out his chest and beamed. “Everything can go back to being the way that it always is!”

LeFou’s mouth dropped open.

“Go back to…?” He trailed off, jaw working as he blinked over and over. “I don’t think you understand. Did I mention, already, how this whole time everyone’s thought you were _dead_?”

“Hmm, I’m sure I was mourned in a most glorious fashion.”

It was wonderful to think of. This almost made everything worth it: he got to have a hero’s funeral but without actually dying. Now he’d hear about it in detail. He couldn’t wait. He would have to get LeFou to tell him all about it. No one told tales relating to him with half as much enthusiasm as LeFou did.

Of course, after he got LeFou’s version, he’d still ask for everyone else’s. Just to be thorough. But then he never did get tired of hearing about himself.

He chortled. “The villagers will be thrilled when they find out I’m still alive!”

“Uh… _some_ of them definitely will be,” LeFou offered. “But, um, the rest…”

“Come now, LeFou. You make it sound as if I should expect there to be a problem. This is me we’re talking about. Remember?”

LeFou squeezed his eyes shut, seeming to require a marshalling of strength before he went on.

“You’ve missed some things,” he said. “You’ve missed a lot, in fact. For now though why don’t we just start with this. Remember how people in this town can be a little…jumpy, when it comes to things that are unusual?”

He pointed at his friend.

“It’s been this long, and everyone was convinced you were dead. _So_ it’ll basically be like you came _back_ from the dead. Do…do you maybe get why that could be a…a problem?”

Gaston frowned. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

LeFou mumbled something that sounded like, “Now there’s a surprise.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” LeFou looked even more tired than he had already. “It can wait. I need to – I’m going out. I have errands to run. Promise me you won’t go outside, though, until I get back?”

Now he knew there was a chance that might lead to an awkward situation, Gaston was willing to wait.

Together they’d come up with the best approach for letting the village know about his return. One maximized to receive the warmest welcome, rather than any messy paranoia and confusion.

“Yes. You won’t be too long, though, will you?”

“I…probably not.” LeFou stood up, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. He gestured several times. “In the kitchen, there’s a few things. I made toast. There’s sausages I cooked last night though they’ll be cold. Some berries I was waiting to ripen, but they should be good now. I milked the goat if you want it, it’s in the clay jug in the corner. You can help yourself to anything else you want from the pantry.”

He paused and gave an odd laugh.

“I’m sure you remember where everything else is. Your spare clothes and things should still be where they usually are. You can use my razor and comb and – whatever. Like always.”

“Is your razor sharpened?” Gaston demanded.

“Yes.” LeFou closed his eyes. “And, there’s a bucket of water heating over the fire. No offense, but I can only assume you really want to wash up. I left out the soap and basin and some towels nearby.”

“You have that right.” He smiled in satisfaction. “Ah, LeFou. What would I do without you?”

“I surely don’t know,” LeFou said feebly, back already to Gaston as he headed out toward the front door.

Gaston was surprised, and more than a little miffed, the other hadn’t wanted to stick around and talk more.

If he hadn’t known better it almost seemed like LeFou wasn’t even that excited to see him. Even though he was Gaston’s most devoted follower, and they’d been apart for so long.

But he shrugged it off as he climbed out of bed, looking forward to a hot bath and a big breakfast. They could always catch up later, whenever LeFou got back.

*

LeFou hadn’t slept a wink.

He hadn’t even bothered to try. How could he? He felt like he’d been struck by lightning. His mind raced in circles, gears grinding, even as he could never reach any conclusion.

Once they’d gotten home he let Gaston into the bedroom and helped him undress partway, enough to sleep comfortably. They didn’t say a word to each other – but there was nothing unusual about that. When he wasn’t in the mood for chatter all one got out of Gaston for hours might be a distracted grunt.

It was surreal, funny in a way that wasn’t funny at all, how much of this felt normal to him.

But how many nights had this been the routine: helping Gaston to his place when he was staggering drunk or dead tired, pulling off his coat and boots and watching him collapse into LeFou’s soft bed - while he was left to sleep on other furniture with the extra blankets he kept almost solely for this.

Gaston passed out within seconds. He must have been exhausted.

LeFou walked a loop around his house, adding Gaston’s vest to where he kept the dirty clothes to be laundered, setting his boots up neatly outside beside the back door where they could be cleaned later.

Gaston spent one night out of three at his own house. Maybe even less. He was always on the move, and if not camped out in the woods or bedded down at some inn outside the village, he’d take one of the rooms over the tavern because he abruptly decided he didn’t want to go home. That or he would head straight back to LeFou’s.

Enough of his property ended up at his friend’s he passed for a full-time resident. For someone who loved fine clothes, to spend money on having the best of everything, Gaston was careless as a schoolboy with his things. He left his hat and shoes and wallet and knives and pretty much anything not attached to his body wherever he set it down, and it was for somebody else to keep track of.

After a point LeFou stopped trying to return things. He kept them at his home – they’d be there the next time Gaston came over and needed them. It wouldn’t be long.

After Gaston died – after that night everyone thought he was dead – he hadn’t gotten rid of anything. Eventually he meant to go through it: decide what to sell, what he’d like to hold onto, what he should simply throw away. He was considering he might burn something. With no body to bury, no funeral to attend, he needed some ceremony of release.

He hadn’t gotten around to it though. He hadn’t been ready.

It was good thing he hadn’t. Since it looked like it was all still needed after all.

Once he’d finished putting things away LeFou returned to the bedroom door. He stood and peered through where it’d been left open a crack.

Gaston was a shadowy mass in the darkness, face hidden, body rising and falling in time to his breathing. LeFou listened to the familiar sound of his snores.

It was interesting, he thought numbly, how easily he’d come back to thinking of Gaston in the present tense. As someone who was still alive versus someone who was gone. How easily he went right back to following old habits.

If he thought he didn’t quite know how he felt when Gaston had “died”, it paled in comparison to now.

He wanted to cling to him, hug him, bury his face in that broad chest, sobbing. He wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, hard as he could, scream at him until his lungs gave out. He wanted to run far, far away from Gaston and have nothing to do with him ever again.

He wanted to help him, keep him safe - because he’d seen that look in Gaston’s eyes in the woods. It made LeFou feel scared, and not for himself.

Not that he wasn’t scared for himself, too. If he were being completely honest. He’d always known Gaston as capable of many things, violent and dangerous when angry. But the night he disappeared he’d graduated to inciting a riot and more than one attempted murder.

LeFou would’ve been uneasy enough inviting his old friend into his home after that. But then there was this new unsettling detail.

Gaston was a werewolf now. A _werewolf._ He was a werewolf and he was asleep in LeFou’s bed, like nothing had gone wrong – like nothing had ever happened.

So LeFou didn’t sleep. He watched over Gaston, not sure if he was more worried by or worried _for_ him.

Then the morning came and Gaston acted like, like…well, himself. Just the same. The man that LeFou had loved and hated himself for loving and missed terribly and been so, so mad at. The man he’d mourned.

He had mourned Gaston. Not just missed him – _mourned_. And there Gaston was, laughing and grinning, patting LeFou on the arm, trying to get him to cook breakfast for him. Like it was no big deal.

Like it didn’t matter LeFou had spent months with his heart breaking, sick to his stomach, only recently having begun to feel he was really starting to move on. Like it didn’t matter the last time they saw each other Gaston threatened him, manipulated him, left him behind. Like it didn’t matter that Gaston was _loup-garou_ and for all LeFou knew spent the past full moon running through the countryside kidnapping children and eating their bones.

LeFou begged off for an excuse to leave soon as he could, because he felt like he was going insane.

He walked up the road in a fog. His head throbbed and his eyes were dry from lack of sleep, he had a nervous stomachache, his thoughts still buzzing like angry bees.

It was too early, he realized. Half the market stalls weren’t even set up. The housewives hadn’t opened their shutters and most of the shops were closed.

But if he stood there doing nothing someone was bound to get curious and come talk to him. LeFou was terrified he might blurt out a too-honest response if they asked how he was.

Not that he didn’t want someone to talk to. If anything, he determined with sudden fervor, right now he desperately needed it.

The question however was _who_.

Who stood even a chance of not panicking if LeFou spoke about Gaston and curses and lovesickness in one breath? Who might be openminded enough and willing to keep a secret?

When the thought came, out of nowhere, LeFou spun on one heel and strode off quickly before he had a chance to second-guess himself.

Even at such an early hour the doors to the church stood open. Pere Robert was dusting in the reliquary and looked up with surprise when he heard someone come in.

His surprise didn’t decrease when he saw who it was, though at least he was polite about it.

“ _Bonjour_ , Monsieur LeFou,” he greeted with mild warmth.

“ _Bonjour_ , Father.” His voice was tremulous. His gaze darted around as he struggled with what to say. “Uh – you’re probably wondering what it is that I’m doing here…”

“This is a house of worship. All are welcome here. Especially those in need of comfort, or guidance.” He was giving LeFou a searching look across the distance of the room. “If I may…you seem, perhaps, as if you might just be one of those.”

“You could say that. Yeah. Right now? Definitely.” He gulped, feeling embarrassed: “I know it’s been, um, a long time since I’ve come for anything other than Christmas service-”

It had been years. Skipping holiday mass in a place like Villeneuve was something one just didn’t do; everyone would be there and they’d notice and whisper furious disapproval about anyone who wasn’t.

But religion bored Gaston and he thought it a waste of fine Sundays not to be out hunting. Of course LeFou went along with him.

Villeneuve had plenty of regular church-goers. Then there were those who managed every other week. Finally were those who dragged themselves in once a month and got glowered at by the scandalized old women who clutched their prayer-books and rosaries.

And then there was Gaston - who showed up on Christmas, sometimes once during the Easter season, and usually appeared if there was a wedding or funeral because that meant there’d be food after.

Everyone shook their heads and laughed it off, because he was Gaston. At least LeFou got a free pass for his sacrilege since the reason was he was out with him.

“It’s all right.” Pere Robert smiled. “Remember, the Lord is our father. As with any parent we are always welcome to pay him a visit whenever we are ready – no matter how long it’s been.”

LeFou stared at him. “Can I ask you a question? If I wanted to talk to you about…something, would you have to keep it a secret? Even if it wasn’t an official confession?”

The chaplain’s brow furrowed as he gave LeFou another scrutinizing look. A harder one this time.

“Not all confession happens in the confessional proper,” he finally answered, cryptically. “Why don’t you go wait in my private quarters. I’ll finish up here, and we can sit down and talk about whatever you’d like.”

If anyone told LeFou he would’ve found himself seated before the village priest’s desk one morning, pouring his heart out in an agonized babble, he would have called it unlikely. And yet that was where he found himself, less than half an hour later.

Pere Robert sat patient and attentive, hands folded; never interrupting, only asking the occasional question.

He was quiet when LeFou finally finished – politely averting his eyes as the younger man wheezed to catch his breath after so much talking.

“You know,” the priest went, with a note of wry humor, “not too long ago I would’ve been inclined to dismiss some of that as delusion. Not out of malice, you understand: but our minds play tricks on us, and what you’ve described-”

“Sounds impossible?” LeFou caught when Pere Robert quirked an eyebrow, and he had to give a shaky laugh. “Yeah. But then almost everyone in this village saw the castle full of talking objects, the enchanted mirror and the giant monster. Our Prince might tell anyone he was under a spell, if he thinks that they’ll believe him.”

“Indeed. Thus we have no choice but to believe in magic.” With a thin smile, neither happy nor harsh, Pere Robert gestured. “So…a _loup-garou_?”

“Yes. I saw it with my own eyes. To be honest, that’s the part that has me most concerned.” LeFou toyed with his hands. “Do you think that makes me a terrible friend?”

“No. I think it makes you cautious. There are many stories about what a werewolf might do, and if even half are true then better souls have been transformed into monsters.” The priest had a sage expression. “It’s an uneasy feeling when one is afraid of their own friends. But it comes from a place of awareness and wisdom.”

LeFou shifted uncomfortably. He’d reason enough to be afraid of Gaston _before_ , possibly. But this…

He didn’t consider himself superstitious. It was hard however not to jump to conclusions about somebody who’d been cursed to change into a man-eating animal.

Real wolves were dangerous as it was. Wolves empowered by dark magic? That was what nightmares were made of.

“What do you think?” he asked. “Do you think it means that Gaston is…is…?”

“Evil? Soulless? Damned?” Pere Robert finished, gently as possible though he didn’t flinch from the words. He frowned as he thought. “You said he told you he was changed unwillingly, by a bite.”

“Uh huh. So, nothing about making a pact with forces of darkness or, um, any of that.”

“That is if he can be taken at his word,” the other had to point out.

“I don’t think it would occur to Gaston to lie about that, at least not to me.” If Gaston made a deal for power with Satan himself he would probably have boasted how clever he was.

Pere Robert nodded, thinking again.

He was, in LeFou’s estimation, astonishingly calm about the whole thing. But the chaplain had always been a reasonable and empathetic man – and everyone in Villeneuve had experienced some very interesting things in a very short time. Maybe he was just working with what he had.

Maybe that was all any of them could do, these days.

“If we take what he says as true, then…it’s my opinion both as a man of religion and of logic his being a werewolf is, well, nothing to worry about,” the priest concluded. “Or if not _nothing_ , certainly he can’t be written off for that alone. It’s the rest of his behavior that should be of greater concern.”

“And it’s not that I’m _not_ concerned. I only-” He wished he knew how to put it. He didn’t know if he wanted to help Gaston, or if it was even the right thing to do.

If Gaston had become something beyond being saved, then…was he only wasting his time?

“I think it’s well-established I’m considered more forgiving than others of my calling,” Pere Robert noted. “But if my input means anything: I think a man cannot be evil solely because of _what_ he is, something he did not choose. Perhaps being _loup-garou_ is not inherently evil on its own. It’s if they use their nature to harm others that they cross the line. Like any other people.”

He smiled, meeting LeFou’s eyes.

“It’s like how I have always preached certain acts, that loving someone willing and able to love you back, cannot by itself be a sin. No matter what other interpreters of the scripture might say.”

LeFou stifled a cough, feeling his cheeks threaten to flush as he understood perfectly what he was hinting. Nice to know word in their little village got far enough around even Pere Robert knew.

It wasn’t the worst comparison though. He hadn’t chosen to be interested in men – and there’d been a time where if he could’ve stopped, changed himself, he absolutely would have. He had no control over it. He wasn’t hurting anyone. Yet for this alone some would call him sinner, wicked, damned.

Gaston hadn’t chosen to be a werewolf. It sounded like he didn’t want to be one either. It wouldn’t be right for LeFou to cast him out for that; not if he was a stranger, and certainly not somebody that he knew so well.

Of course, it was the knowing Gaston so well as he did, that was the real problem.

“Thanks. For the advice. That helps.”

“It’s what I’m here for,” Pere Robert said, seriously. He put out his hand and after an uncertain moment LeFou took it, as the priest gave his knuckles a comforting grip.

His hand was surprisingly strong for a man of the cloth, and he had calluses. Then again there wasn’t much money to go around for a village church: Pere Robert probably had to do the upkeep on his own. Like other villagers without families he had to mend his own clothing and grow much of his food.

What brought a man like this, intelligent and educated and compassionate, LeFou found himself wondering, to a place like Villeneuve? More importantly, what made him stay?

“So,” he said aloud in a strained voice, “what should I do now?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. It’s up to what your conscience dictates.”

LeFou swallowed as he thought of Maurice left alone in the cold night. “My conscience hasn’t been entirely up to snuff, lately.”

“I make a point to try getting a feel for everyone in my parish, regardless of how often they come by. I would argue that your conscience is more than adequate. You just have to be careful about knowing when to listen for it and not letting other voices drown it out.” Pere Robert gave LeFou’s hand one last pat as he withdrew. “I would urge you to be incredibly cautious, whatever action you decide on next. Much of what Gaston has done cannot be set aside. But then, you already knew that.”

“Yes.” LeFou said somberly. “I do.”

Gaston had to answer to somebody, because much of what he’d done was literally a crime.

Too bad he had a feeling Gaston didn’t see it that way.

LeFou got out of his chair, nervously looking at the other man. “I hate to press the issue. But what we talked about here-”

“I consider it information relayed to me within the bounds of trust,” Pere Robert assured. “I won’t tell a soul.”

LeFou breathed out in relief. _“Merci beaucoup.”_

_“Avec plaisir.”_ Still seated Pere Robert gazed at him peaceably. “Perhaps I’ll be seeing you around here on Sundays, more often?”

Though it probably wasn’t fair to say he was guilting him, LeFou gulped anyway. “I’ll try,” he promised.

“That’s all we can do. We are made in His image, but we have our limits.”

Pere Robert lifted his hand in a friendly wave.

“A good day to you, Monsieur. And, good luck.”

*

His conversation with the priest had successfully killed some time. The town was properly awake now.

After leaving the church LeFou went to the cobbler to pick up his shoes. He swung by the school again – the shingles had arrived, but still no tar. It was really too hot to be climbing around on roofs anyway.

He let the Headmaster berate him with more tolerance than he might have otherwise, because standing there and being grumbled at by a red-faced man in a wig still felt easier than going home.

And so it went. Between one thing and another LeFou managed to dawdle away the morning.

When he glanced up and saw that the big clock was almost on noon, though, he sighed. He couldn’t stay out forever.

On his way back through the market he bought a basket of apples, because it might look odd if he was gone so long and all he had were the shoes. Then girding his courage, he headed back down the road.

He closed his eyes and counted to five and then he pulled open his front door, quickly slipping inside before shutting it behind him.

“Ah, LeFou! There you are! Goodness, but it took you long enough. Did you go to the village square, or walk to Avignon?”

Gaston’s voice, complaining jovially, washed over him in a disorientating wave. LeFou took a moment to remind himself that no, he hadn’t gone mad with grief, before opening his eyes.

He thought he had prepared himself. But he quickly realized – he wasn’t prepared.

Gaston was leaning one hip against the side of LeFou’s sofa, standing there in the middle of the room with his arms folded. He’d cleaned up and put himself in order since LeFou had been gone.

He was dressed in an outfit of beige and muted gold put together from the spare clothes LeFou had kept folded neatly away. He had on his second-best pair of boots. He’d shaved down to the amount of stubble he normally had, styled his hair fastidiously in his usual way.

The sight of him, in any state, was overwhelming enough. But this? No longer dirty, bedraggled, almost pathetic – no. Now he was _Gaston_ again, perfect and polished and painfully familiar.

LeFou bit his lower lip because he felt like he might cry. _Gaston really was alive._

Alive, standing there with the same cocky smirk, looking at LeFou with companionable light in his eyes.

The time that’d passed had allowed LeFou to forget the infatuated rush that came over him when he was in Gaston’s orbit. Now he experienced it again fresh, a tingle from the tips of his toes up his spine that left him lightheaded. He felt like he could stand there looking at him for hours. He wanted to follow him everywhere, do whatever he asked, just to please him, because that would make LeFou happy too.

_And that would be enough_ , a little voice within sighed. _It would be enough, just look at him, he’s gorgeous…_

LeFou stamped down on it, firmly, a twist in his stomach. It would _not_ be enough. He knew better now.

He tried to get back under control. “You look much better,” he commented, managing not to swoon as he said it.

Gaston laughed, sounding oddly giddy. “I feel it, too.” He straightened, walking closer to LeFou, gesturing with both arms. “I slept in a bed and I’m wearing clean clothes and ate a meal off a plate. You have _no idea_ how good this feels. What a difference it makes.”

There was indeed a genuine relief in his features that made LeFou glad for him. He couldn’t imagine what Gaston had been through in their time apart.

If only that was all there was to worry about. But there was everything that’d come directly _before_ that, too.

Gaston noticed the apples and plucked one up. LeFou half-expected him to complain – he usually preferred the red ones, sweet and crisp, while LeFou had gotten the tart green kind without thinking.

He didn’t seem to care though. He took a big bite, teeth sinking in with a crunch.

When he pulled it away, savoring it, some of the juice trailed from the corner of his mouth. His eyelids fluttered slightly, and he gave a small moan of satisfaction.

It took LeFou about thirty seconds to remember how to breathe.

“That must be some apple,” he said incredulously, picking his jaw up off the floor.

“It’s delicious,” Gaston replied cheerily through a still-full mouth. “Anything would be after months of eating nothing but meat.” Belatedly, he swallowed. “You would think I’d enjoy that but-”

“No, I get it.” No bread, no milk, no beer, no fresh fruit or salad greens or – he felt a little ill at the thought. Anything could seem like torture when there wasn’t a choice.

LeFou sat down, putting the basket on the floor. He busied himself with taking out his new shoes and examining them, because there was still juice on Gaston’s cheek and his fingers twitched to wipe it away; to stroke that cleft in his chin, tracing the line of his jaw-

Gaston scrubbed his face off with the back of his hand and LeFou felt that familiar mix of disappointment and relief. He shut his eyes briefly, as internally he sighed at himself.

He remembered a time when his feelings of love gave him life, but now they only made him tired.

He distracted himself with his shoes while Gaston finished eating the apple. Maybe he’d turn the pair he was wearing into his spares and use the newer ones instead. The weather was still good, and his current set was going weak in one heel.

It was crazy, he noted, that he was sitting there thinking about something so mundane considering what else was going on.

Looking up he discovered Gaston had already stripped the apple down to its core. Something occurred to LeFou.

“There’s basically nothing left in my pantry, is there?”

“Not really.”

“…Yep, saw that coming,” he sighed. He shut his eyes again for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

Abandoning the shoes, he leapt to his feet and went over to stand before Gaston.

“All right. I’m going to have to head back to the market again, probably with a wheelbarrow, to make sure we have something for supper. Before I do…there are some things we _really_ need to talk about.”

“Go on.”

Peering out the open window Gaston took aim and threw the apple core overhand. It flew in a perfect arc, startling the goat grazing nearby, as it landed in the pile of compost way by the back of the yard.

“Aha…yes!”

“ _Gaston_ ,” LeFou stressed, tugging his wrist. “I’m serious!”

Gaston gave him a peaceable look. Clearing his throat, LeFou smiled anxiously. Hoping there was some way this would go better than he knew it probably would.

“Revisiting this whole _issue_ we talked about earlier? You know, you basically coming back from the dead, and-”

“Ah, yes. I have been thinking about that. Clearly what you need to do is spread the word gradually, so that it doesn’t come as so much of a shock. My miraculous survival. Not that it should truly be a surprise, considering: after all, it is _me_.” Gaston chuckled offhand.

LeFou tried getting a word in - to no avail. Gaston kept speaking, not noticing his expression.

“Superstition aside, I think really it shouldn’t be _that_ hard to get everyone to calm down, and be grateful. Once it hits them, all the reasons they have to celebrate.” He struck a pose, gazing into the middle distance, complete with that _look_ he tended to give his own reflection: “Their hero has returned.”

He propped a leg up and rested one boot on the sofa, bending down at the knee as he draped an arm across LeFou’s shoulders, tugging him close. With his other hand he reached into the empty space in their lines of sight, trying to get him to picture along with what he was saying.

“Here’s what I was thinking. It won’t _officially_ be a party for my return. You’ll gather everyone in the tavern just after sundown on some other pretense. Of course you’ll have spent the days prior reminding them of my bravery during the war, my greatest exploits and daring feats; all the reasons they have to be glad I’m still alive. The tears they shed, the great loss they felt…it’s as if some divine power heard them and their prayers have been answered.”

He switched from a somber dramatic tone to an enthusiastic one.

“Then at a prearranged signal, you’ll strike up the band, then I’ll enter as everyone turns and-”

“Gaston, stop!” LeFou pulled away, wide-eyed. “ _No one_ is going to be celebrating your return.”

Gaston made a sound of disbelieving amusement as he stepped back. “What? Why ever not?”

“Well let’s start with one of the first things you did, the week leading up to the night you disappeared.” LeFou folded his arms. “ _Maurice._ An old man who never did harm to you or anyone here. But everyone knows the truth of what you tried to do, now.”

Gaston’s face fell and he looked guilty. Not guilty like he felt bad: guilty like someone afraid of being caught.

“He was standing in the way of plans for my marriage,” he vehemently protested.

LeFou stared at him. He wished he could say he was surprised.

But he still couldn’t believe it: that anyone, even his admittedly conceited friend, could be so…vilely self-absorbed.

“You tied him to a tree in the middle of the night and left him to die,” LeFou said, voice hollow. “Then when he turned up again, you arranged to have him shipped off to a madhouse to cover your tracks.”

Gaston rubbed his upper lip, frowning as he thought. “All right. I’ll admit, that looks bad. But I’ve talked my way out of situations before. I’ll do it again.”

“No. You won’t,” LeFou retorted. “Because that’s not even the worst of it! Let me remind you what happened next, since you seem to have forgotten.”

He stepped closer and closer as he spoke, until their faces were near as they could possibly get after accounting for the difference in height.

“You locked Maurice in the wagon. Then, Belle showed up. She offered proof that her father wasn’t talking nonsense. Then you locked _her_ – the woman you were _supposedly doing all of this for_ – in the wagon. Then you stirred up a large part of the town into an angry mob.”

Gaston scoffed, waving an arm. “We had to defend our homes from that monster!”

“Why? Even if you didn’t believe Belle when she said he was harmless, there was no sign he was coming after us. You went looking for a fight! And you dragged us along with you.”

“In war you cannot wait for the enemy to launch an assault first,” Gaston said, angrily. “To secure the greatest advantage you must strike, and fast, before they’ve a chance to.”

LeFou rolled his eyes. “I’m not a barmaid or a farmer’s son. Don’t talk to me like I haven’t ever seen a battlefield. The truth is,” he swallowed, “you weren’t trying to keep anyone safe. You weren’t concerned for the village, or worried about the monster. You were only thinking of yourself.”

Gaston stared at him, aghast. He clearly never expected he’d speak to him like this.

“And you nearly got a lot of people killed for it. Never mind that you led peasants armed with rolling pins and gardening tools up against an unknown danger-”

“I did what I had to do,” Gaston cut him off. “And I accomplished what I set out for, I might add! I _slayed_ that monster.”

He bared his teeth in a fierce cruel smile.

“He thought he had the upper hand, but I waited until his back was turned. I fired two rounds right into his hide. My aim is always true,” he concluded, smug. “That Beast is dead. I know it.”

LeFou needed a moment before he could go on – watching Gaston stand there, head thrown back with pride. _Proud_ of what he was talking about.

“He isn’t dead, Gaston,” he finally said, quietly. “And he isn’t a beast, either. He was under a spell. The whole castle was under a spell. Those talking objects? They were his servants. No one got hurt, luckily. And everyone’s gone back to normal.”

“LeFou, what in God’s name are you going on about?”

“I keep trying to tell you there’s a lot that you’ve missed. The Beast was really a prince, being punished for his vanity and greediness. He was cursed to look like a monster. But Belle broke the spell by falling in love with him. And now they’re married.”

“ _What?_ ” Gaston’s jaw dropped. “Belle? _Married?_ But-”

“I hear the wedding was beautiful.” LeFou’s voice was distant. “It was a private ceremony, of course.”

“I don’t understand,” Gaston said in disbelief.

LeFou looked him in the eye as he attempted to speak in an even, reasonable tone.

“Do me a favor. Try searching your memory, for just one second. Do you have any recollection of the lord that once ruled over us? He had a home not very far from Villeneuve. The servants used to come down here all the time.”

“Yes,” Gaston said slowly. “Yes, I do remember. A spoiled puppy said to be even worse than his father! I used to shoot game adjacent to the grounds of the castle, even though it was forbidden. Like the Prince would ever notice. Several people in the village worked for him, too. There was Monsieur Potts’ wife, and Clothide’s husband…”

LeFou watched his face – since Gaston preferred being a man of action, it was obvious when he was thinking hard. He was unpracticed.

He saw when it happened: the restored memories fit into place, Gaston realizing the full implications.

“… _Oh_ ,” he breathed out, eyes popping wide.

LeFou felt sickly satisfied.

“Do you get it now? You led those people against their own loved ones. We didn’t remember, because of the curse. They could’ve killed a family member or friend without even realizing. They’re understandably pretty upset about it.”

“That isn’t my fault,” Gaston tried protesting. “I didn’t know, any more than they did!”

“But you were leading the charge. They feel bad about what happened and looked for someone to blame. And you haven’t been around to defend yourself.”

It wasn’t completely fair. Though Gaston was anything but innocent, it was hard to tell how much of the negativity his name had since collected in the village was out of misplaced guilt people were feeling.

Regardless of whether it was entirely deserved or not – the fact was, there was anything waiting for him but a hero’s welcome home.

Gaston stood there speechless, a long pause building as he looked increasingly shaken. What LeFou was saying, the reality of how completely opposite the state of things was to what he’d been expecting, sinking in.

He gazed at LeFou, at a loss. “So…what, then? What are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you,” LeFou said, serious as he could, “that if the villagers find out you’re alive, then you’re going to be seeing another angry mob. Only this time you won’t be leading it.”

Gaston spluttered. “That’s…preposterous. I can accept they might be upset, but for it to be that bad?”

“It is that bad.”

“No.” Gaston laughed unevenly, shaking his head. “Your concern is touching but you exaggerate, surely. For all of Villeneuve to have turned against me? _Me?_ ” He gestured to himself. “These people worship me! Why, they’ve spent years singing my praises!”

LeFou didn’t know what else to say. If Gaston really thought everyone adored him that blindly…he didn’t realize things weren’t so simple. Couldn’t grasp how popularity could be fickle, the mind of the crowd turning on a whim.

“All right.” He gave a humorless smile. “Fine. If you really don’t believe me, then go ahead.” He indicated the front door. “Go out there, and see for yourself.”

The grin slid from Gaston’s face as his friend effectively called his bluff.

He swallowed dryly. His gaze darted between LeFou and the door – confidence vanishing as he absorbed the conviction the other had behind what he was saying.

Gaston might have acted the unwavering leader, but the truth was he knew LeFou had good instincts. Especially when it came to observing other people.

His shoulders slumped as, wordlessly, he surrendered. Hands at his sides he stared into nothing, face blank.

LeFou let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, relieved. He had many conflicted feelings about Gaston, but he still didn’t want to see him hurt.

Punished for what he’d done, perhaps, yes. But not a victim of mob justice.

“What am I going to do?” For Gaston, his voice was small.

“I don’t know,” LeFou admitted.

Gaston paced a bit as he thought out loud. “I can’t go back to the woods. I won’t be able to avoid the other wolves. If they bring me back I may not be able to gather up the will to escape again.”

His nose wrinkled in distaste.

“I’ve been in Villeneuve my whole life, I don’t want to _leave._ I suppose it wouldn’t be that hard, to start over someplace else, some other town, far away…”

LeFou went cold.

“That’s your solution? You don’t want to face the consequences so you’re talking about _running away_?”

“If there’s nothing left for me here, what choice have I?” Gaston threw himself down into a chair, wearing a surly expression. “Unbelievable. Here I was, so looking forward to coming back-”

“It would be so easy for you, I guess,” LeFou said stiffly. “To leave all of this behind.”

Gaston looked up, frowning in confusion as he seemed to pick up on the anger and _hurt_ in his voice.

“Well you would come with me, of course.” He shrugged. “Why wouldn’t you? We’re a team, we’re-”

“A duo,” LeFou finished for him. Gaston beamed.

“Exactly!”

He was just…assuming LeFou would run away to blindly try and start over again somewhere else. Because Gaston wanted him to.

There was a time, LeFou thought bitterly, where he would’ve been flattered by that.

The worst part was though, was it so wrong of Gaston to assume? He gave up on school early, so did LeFou. He signed up for the war, LeFou followed him. Wherever Gaston went, LeFou went too, always.

He’d lost count of the times Gaston had said, usually laughing, clapping him on the back: _“What would I do without you?”_ And sometimes LeFou was touched by that, took it as a compliment.

But the truth was most times it hit at something uncomfortable in his chest. Because he couldn’t help thinking without him, Gaston’s life would probably be exactly the same.

While, as for the opposite? LeFou had _nothing_ without him.

Or so he once thought. Then Gaston had died, though, or been presumed dead. And LeFou kept living. He had survived, he had…thrived, even. Done new things, started moving on. He could have a life not trapped in his friend’s shadow.

He had discovered it for himself: he didn’t need Gaston, at all.

His hands turned to fists at his sides. His spine went rigid as he lifted his head, staring with heated gaze.

“I don’t know if it’s occurred to you, Gaston. But I have a home here. I have friends. I’ve lived in this village my whole life, too. It’s not perfect, maybe, but I happen to like it here.” His voice started off even but gradually rose, teeth clenched. “And unlike you, I haven’t done something to alienate everybody. Why exactly should I drop everything just because you ask?”

Gaston’s expression was profoundly unsettled. “What’s gotten into you?”

“You wanted to be missed so, so badly. You wanted people to mourn you. Well congratulations, because somebody did: _me_.”

His eyes stinging, LeFou glared, voice shaking with outrage.

“ _I_ did. I mourned you, for months. Do you have any idea what that’s like? To think that someone important to you is gone, to wake up every day and remember you’ll never see them again? Do you know what that _feels_ like? What it does to a person? But you – you don’t even _care_.”

He was breathing audibly, to keep from shouting. His pulse pounded in his temples.

“I’ve tried not to overanalyze our past too much, because it’d literally drive me insane. But sometimes, I swear, I about think you never even cared at all.”

Gaston gripped the arms of the chair, leaning away in discomfort. His eyes had gone impressively wide.

“LeFou…”

“Save it,” he snapped. “Just know this, because I doubt it’s occurred to you either: it’s not only the rest of the village that thinks less favorably of you now. It’s _me_ , too.”

LeFou shook his head, hard.

“I’m going to help you for old time’s sake. But things are _not_ going to be like how they were before. We are so past the days where you can just push me around. It’s over.”

There wasn’t anything else to say at that point, and he honestly didn’t know what might happen if he stayed a moment longer. So he spun around and stomped out, slamming the door.

And he told himself he wasn’t surprised or disappointed, that Gaston didn’t come running after him.

*

Belle was used to taking her meals on the run. A hunk of cheese or hard crust of bread stuffed into an apron pocket, a bit of meat cut up quickly, a half cup of tea gulped down before she went back to what needed done.

Clothes to be mended, washing taken down from the line, sweeping up inside, weeding the garden. Her father helped of course; Maurice had no concept of chores considered “women’s work” versus that of a man’s. But it was his music boxes and bits of tinkering that brought in money they needed to survive. So Belle left him to it, and she took care of the rest.

In a way she was glad. Though he tried to be a practical, homespun man Papa was at heart still an artist. He could disappear into his own little world for hours when he was thinking of a concept for his next creation. And the longer he was gone the more Belle was free to wander, left to her own devices.

She would hurry through her chores much as she could while ensuring everything was still done the right way the first time. The instant the chickens were fed, the beds made, water drawn from the well, the soup set to boil for supper – then that became her time. She could sketch, daydream, read to her heart’s content.

It was never enough though. Sooner than she would like she’d have to come back to earth. There was always some other mundane business that couldn’t go ignored for their family’s sake.

But that was the life of a peasant, a village girl. One with no mother or sisters to lend a hand, certainly no spare coin for servants. Everything they had they made on their own, traded for, or saved to buy.

Belle wasn’t a village girl anymore, a motherless daughter dependent on her artisan father. Now she was married, noble, a princess.

What a difference that made. Now the key word to every aspect of her intended existence was “leisurely”. Especially meals. Multicourse banquets with chilled bottles of wine. Long afternoon teas with tiers of sandwiches and scones. Breakfasts of hot flaking croissants brought fresh from the oven, and melted chocolate poured from a beautiful silver pot.

Some days it chafed, because she was unused to it. And sometimes when all she wanted was a simple little bite, the presentation could get quite silly.

All the same though – Belle had to admit, it was nice to sit and relax. Especially if it meant she could spend as much time reading as she liked.

The first time she sat for so long, engrossed in a chapter of a novel, that her soup had gone ice cold and her husband moved on to the next course without her, she had been completely mortified.

But Lumiere shushed her confidently, and sent her bowl back to the kitchen to be heated up. And when she tried to apologize to Adam he said with a perfectly indifferent smile, “Not at all, my love. I recognized that look on your face - I couldn’t bear to interrupt you.”

“You spoil me,” she had to say, though she couldn’t help smiling back as she said it.

“A bit,” he confessed. “You’re lucky you have someone who understands well the pleasures of vociferous reading in your corner.”

“Indeed.” Belle ducked her head impishly, before looking again to meet his eyes. “Still, you should be more careful. If I get too used to going unchecked, I might risk no longer being the person you fell in love with.”

She said it lightly, but it did worry her a bit. She knew herself to be independent, willful, in which she took no small amount of pride. But she wasn’t a fool – she was human, and wealth and luxury could change people. She didn’t know that she was safely above the chance of that.

It had only been weeks so far. What would further months do? Years?

Adam cocked his head as he met her gaze with thoughtful blue eyes, for a moment giving the possibility she presented due consideration.

“We can’t possibly have that,” he said, seriously. “I would never forgive myself.”

“Then you will simply have to rise to the occasion more when it comes to challenging me.”

It was his turn to give her a mirthful look. “Do you find yourself going frequently unchallenged now?”

She had to chuckle. They’d a similar enough sense of humor and were often in sync, but they were also both people of strong opinions. And though Adam’s moods could be incredibly strong when he put his back against a wall, Belle was thoroughly convinced he enjoyed a friendly argument more than he might like to admit.

She knew that she did. Words said with passion, perhaps, but not heated in anger. A partner who wouldn’t back down from her constant need to theorize and debate.

It made her feel almost as alive with love as the hours in the library, or the nights entangled in each other’s arms. What a heavenly union was this: someone who could truly match her in mind, body and soul.

“You do challenge me,” she told him with soft, warm affection. “But it’s impossible not to notice, you do take pleasure in giving me whatever I want as well.”

“You worry that I will give in too much to the impulse to do one when I should be doing the other?”

“Perhaps.” She nodded, glancing down to her book.

She rested one hand on the pages, gazing at the illumination ending the chapter. Her fingertips itched with longing, wanting to find out how the next part started. _Just a few pages more…_

She jumped to discover that Adam had silently rose from his chair and stolen to her side: he set his hand down on the page atop hers, blocking her view.

And even as she automatically opened her mouth to protest, he gently pried her hand away, and shut the book closed.

He took it away from the table, tucking it under one arm. “Now that’s enough of that.” His free hand cupped her chin, lifting her face towards his. “It will still be here when we finish. I would like to enjoy my lady wife’s company with this delicious meal Chef Cuisinier has prepared.”

He bent closer, mouth hovering tantalizingly close. “And after that,” he spoke in a lowered voice, “I think that I shall do my best to see you too thoroughly distracted to get back to reading right away. In the sake of keeping your sense of entitlement fully in check, you understand.”

He kissed her, heated, on her cheek and throat. Belle parted her lips invitingly, but he left them untouched – true to his word, he made her wait.

That time it had been well into the early hours of evening, when she finally got back to her book.

The memory drifted back to her another day as she lingered over tea, accompanied this time by her father – and a book of poetry. Though not the same as what she’d been reading the time previous the colored pictures around the edges of the pages reminded her, and Belle couldn’t but smirk fondly as she remembered.

“Is something funny, Belle?” Papa asked, noting the look on her face.

Belle quickly tried to hide her distraction, remembering herself. “Oh – nothing,” she said, flipping pages for an excuse to keep her eyes down. “My mind was just wandering.”

When she looked up though she found he was watching her with a knowing smile.

“Ah, I think I know that look,” he remarked, slow. “Young love. That perfect ever-present feeling that comes with being a newlywed.” He sighed as he picked up his cup. “Though long has it been, I still remember what it felt like. Those days.”

“I don’t know how I feel that I manage to be so obvious,” Belle admitted.

“It’s all such a cliché, isn’t it? Love.” Such an outwardly cynical statement spoken with warmth and gentle mirth. “And yet those who find themselves within the thrall of it can hardly seem to care. That’s how wonderful it is.”

Belle looked up with a smile, but soon felt conflicted as she realized his eyes shone with some barely-repressed emotion. He was thinking of those long-ago days with her mother, she was sure.

“What is it, Papa?” she said softly – trying to prompt him into speaking, if he needed it.

“I am so pleased for you. That you’ve found such a perfect life. I see the way you two look at one another: you so infatuated, and he ready to do anything to keep you happy and safe. That which is most important and then…all of this, too.”

He spread his arms with a near-silent chuckle, indicating their surroundings.

“But I must admit,” he grew more somber, “after all these years watching you grow, it’s hard to accept you’ve become a young woman at last.” He sighed again, wistful. “For so long it’s just been the two of us. But here you are. You’re starting your own life, Belle; one without me.”

She reached to curl fingers around his arm. “You will always be part of my life, Papa. I would never leave you behind.”

“But you’re growing up. You’ve left the nest, already. You’re a wife now – eventually, probably, you’ll be a mother. There are going to be things you do that won’t include me. Don’t misunderstand me, Belle – this is the natural order of things, and I know it. I wouldn’t try to stop you even if I thought I could.”

He gave a wry smile.

“I only can’t help but be sad a little. Especially now that, well – what am I going to do to occupy my time, now that I’m not looking after you?”

He was making a joke, of course. While her father had taught her everything and been there for her from the start, for a long time Belle had definitely been taking care of herself.

Still the look she gave him was sympathetic, because she knew there was a truth hidden behind it too. For years it’d been her and Papa, nobody else. Now that Belle had a husband in her life to occupy her time, as well as other people – who would her father have?

“Well,” Belle said evenly, trying to match his lighthearted tone, “you’re not too old to make friends.”

He blinked and pulled a face, feigning more distrust in that idea than she was sure he felt. They both laughed.

“I suppose I can see how the people in Villeneuve warm to me, now that I’m well-connected,” he said sarcastically as he sipped his tea again. Belle couldn’t but roll her eyes a bit, knowing he probably wasn’t too far off the mark.

“Indeed. Though there were those I know you could talk a bit with before.” She paused delicately. “Some of them weren’t even involved with – what happened to you that night. Pere Robert, for example…”

“Oh, a good man to be sure, and I owe a debt of gratitude he even tried speaking out in my defense. But he was always more your friend than he was mine. He has this…quiet intensity I can’t help but find a little intimidating.”

“Pere Robert?” She laughed incredulously. “Intimidating?”

“He _is_ a priest.”

“Hmm.” She sipped her own tea as she mulled over her thoughts. “Well, there’s Monsieur Jean…”

“Perhaps.” He was less than enthusiastic, and she wondered how much resentment he still felt towards those that joined the mob. Even if they regretted it immediately after. “He has a wife and son now, though. He’s busier.”

“You could try getting to know Cogsworth better-” Now she really was joking. Papa made a scathed sound.

“Such a sourpuss! He makes _me_ feel positively lackadaisical by comparison.”

Belle chuckled. “Oh, he’s not so bad once you get used to him.”

“I imagine the part where one does so is nothing less than a chore.”

Their amicable laughter trailed off. Belle smiled in pensive silence.

Her father gazed into the air, a curious expression on his face.

“Agathe,” he remarked, slowly. “You know, I can’t help but wonder…how she’s doing…”

That her father would think of the woman that saved his life with concern, now, could be no surprise to Belle. She frowned as she searched her own thoughts however.

“I haven’t seen Agathe in a while,” she realized out loud.

“I don’t think anybody has,” Papa said. “I know we don’t spend as much time in the village any more – still, I hope nothing happened to her.” Belle’s frown deepened.

“The last I remember seeing her was the night that the enchantment ended. She was there, in the crowd that formed outside the castle after. I was surprised, for a moment – that’s why I remember. There was so much going on.” She had to smile as she thought back to that glorious time, her and Adam together, everyone celebrating. “Still, I know it was her.”

“I don’t remember seeing her myself. She must have been gone by the time I arrived. But why would she leave?”

“A good question.” Belle nodded, brow wrinkling. “That, and…”

“What?” Papa sat up straighter in his chair, peering at her face. Belle looked to him.

“I can’t explain it. It’s just – I remember, when I saw her, thinking that she looked _different_ somehow. Younger, almost. It’s hard to describe.”

She shut her eyes but gave up when the memory refused to surface any clearer, sighing.

“But there were a lot of people standing in the way, and I didn’t look for very long. As I said, there was a lot happening. Maybe I only imagined it.”

“Perhaps,” he said, very slowly.

He rubbed his chin and seemed to think about it longer than Belle.

“Papa?”

“Oh – nothing.” She couldn’t read his face. All she knew for certain was he had something on his mind. “But you know, I think that next time I get a chance to go back to the village, I might swing by. See if I can’t inquire after what’s become of Agathe.”

*

There wasn’t much to do, inside LeFou’s modest house. He certainly didn’t own any books. The way he was always busy working on one thing or another, little projects for pay or to help out others, meant he didn’t have much time for hobbies.

It could be supposed that hunting was his main hobby, since he spent so much time doing that. But no one would get at a glance that he was a hunter. He kept no trophies, and what few weapons he owned were put away.

Most of the weapons weren’t really _his_ , anyway. They usually belonged to Gaston. LeFou just had them to look after, to clean and sharpen and polish.

It’d taken a few minutes of searching after LeFou left, and it became clear he wasn’t coming back for a while, for Gaston to find one of his own knives.

It was a long thing, heavy, with a fine leather handle. Gaston sat slumped in the main room of LeFou’s house, facing the back wall, and he threw his knife towards the same spot in the corner. It hit with a methodic _thunk_ each time as the point sunk hard into the wood.

His gaze was heated, unblinking; he looked at both the knife and the wall without quite seeing either. Jaw clenched, he moved almost mechanically as he got up each time to retrieve his weapon, repeating the motions again and again in silence.

His thoughts were dark and brooding.

Villeneuve had been his to lord over, and now the people had turned on him? After everything he’d done for them? How quickly they forgot. How _dare_ they.

It was easiest to be angry, because it drowned out the fear and uncertainty underneath. What sort of life was he going to have, if everyone hated him now? If they didn’t want him? What was he going to do?

Best not to think on it. Just sit there, continuing his target practice, seeping in the feeling of betrayal.

It was not nearly so easy to know what to think or how to feel about LeFou. Yes, Gaston was angered by that too - he never would’ve expected his closest friend to turn on him in such a way.

But they’d never quarreled before. Not once. It was unsettling to experience, and it threw him off enough he was left mostly unsure.

Anyway, in the back of his mind, that cold methodical part always focused on self-preservation was working: LeFou was still taking care of him, keeping him hidden, and safe. It wouldn’t be wise to pick a fight. If he wore out his welcome here, he really would have nothing.

He supposed he couldn’t do anything, which never sat well with him. He liked being able to do _something_ about his problems. Act decisively, with confidence, and tackle them head-on. This time however it seemed there was nothing to do but sit, and wait.

LeFou would come back around, though, of course. He _had_ to. Eventually it would be like old times.

Under his breath Gaston gave a low growl of frustration. The sound reached his own ears and he fell silent again, stopping himself.

That hadn’t seemed entirely like a sound a human was capable of making; it hadn’t sounded like a man growling, at all.

He shut down his worries and told himself it had been his mind playing tricks on him. Only his restless imagination.

Conveniently forgetting he’d never had much in the way of an imagination before.

The door opened and Gaston twitched in his seat, turning around. LeFou walked in with an armload of parcels from the grocer and went to set them in his kitchen.

He stopped, took in the sight of Gaston, gaze going from the knife balanced in the other’s hand to the cluster of small marks left in the wall. LeFou’s mouth pressed together in disapproval.

He turned around, though, and returned to what he was doing without a word.

“Welcome back,” Gaston called, indignant. LeFou only grunted in acknowledgement.

He kept bringing in items – it seemed he had indeed bought a wheelbarrow’s worth, and once he finished filling up the kitchen he started making trips back and forth from the pantry.

Bored, restless, Gaston got up and went to see what was laid out in the kitchen.

Roots, carrots, dried spices: it looked like LeFou was planning on cooking them a stew. A pair of fresh rabbits were stretched out on the counter.

“Where did you get these?” Gaston indicated them the next time LeFou walked by.

He glanced over his shoulder before wandering off again, calling back as he did: “I got them from Jaspar. The baker’s assistant.”

“Where did _he_ get them?”

“He had the day off so he spent it hunting. Caught more than he was planning to eat. He said that he owed me – he doesn’t, really. But I wasn’t about to say no.”

Gaston didn’t bother asking what Jaspar, the baker’s assistant, might “owe” LeFou for. It could be a hundred things, all of them equally uninteresting and unimportant.

He eyed the rabbits. They were a decent pair, neither too young or old – and the meat would be fresh. It was early enough Gaston wasn’t truly hungry again. But he would almost always eat whenever food was set before him. That was just his way.

The rabbits would have to be skinned before anything else could be done with them. He could take care of that, while LeFou was otherwise occupied. It’d pass the time.

Knife still in hand, he rolled up his shirtsleeves and picked one of the dead rabbits up by the ears, finding a spot on the counter. He made a long incision into the animal’s belly. Gutting and cleaning his kills was second nature to him; even something small as this, unlike what he usually hunted. Within moments his hands were moving almost of their own accord as the well-practiced motions took over.

The smell of the meat, though…fresh and raw. He was used to that, too, but it seemed so much stronger now. Clearer. Compelling.

The skin was off completely, his hands wet. But he barely noticed. He kept gazing at the red and pink, the cleaned viscera, the twist of sinew and flesh. His mouth was watering. He knew if he bit down on it he’d feel it give just right beneath his teeth…

Gaston tugged off a small strip and stuck it in his mouth, eyes closing as he chewed.

He stood there for a few moments, relishing the taste, on the verge of reaching for more – when he became aware that LeFou was standing off to his left side. Staring at him.

“Um.” LeFou looked pale, his eyes round and wide. “I was…going to _cook_ those, but if you’d prefer…”

He processed LeFou’s dubious, vaguely ill expression – and it hit him he was standing there eating raw meat. And clearly enjoying it too, as LeFou’s reaction could attest.

Not that he didn’t prefer his meals a little bloody most times, but this…this was very different. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing.

Shaken, Gaston quickly backed away from the counter, hand to his lips as he swallowed the evidence away.

“Sorry,” he croaked. “I wasn’t…I wasn’t thinking.”

LeFou looked like he wanted to say _something_ , but couldn’t think of what. For a minute they just stared at one another.

Speechless and humiliated, Gaston finally fled, leaving him to do whatever he wanted.

He went outside, punching the side of the shed behind the house until his knuckles were raw. Inside he heard LeFou’s horse whinny nervously, but he ignored it.

Beneath his skin he could feel the wolf, beating against his ribs like they were bars of a cage, trying to free itself. Trying to surge up his throat. It was hungry and angry and wanted to run.

_No_ , Gaston thought. _No, no_. He bent double and breathed hard, until the feeling went away. This was _his_ life – he wasn’t going to surrender it again.

When his vision cleared, his pulse slowed he looked down at his hands, watching the skin knit back together. He wiped the small traces of blood away. Nothing to worry about.

It was fine, he reassured himself. Somehow everything was going to be fine.

He went back in. LeFou had started cooking, maybe out of lack of anything better to do. When Gaston walked by he looked up, inquisitive – Gaston met his gaze before guiltily looking away.

LeFou, however, seemed to know better than to ask any questions.

Dinner was rabbit stew, rolls that must’ve been baked that morning, a leftover bottle of wine that’d started to go vaguely sour. There was pie for dessert, and Gaston knew LeFou must have bought it off Peg at the tavern – he recognized the crust.

They ate their meal in silence.

After they finished Gaston was leaning back in his chair, one arm draped around it, watching as LeFou cleaned up.

“By the way.” Gaston frowned, tugging his own upper lip in indication. “What is _this?_ ”

“Oh.” LeFou’s hand rose halfway, realizing he was talking about his new mustache. “Nothing. Thought I’d try something different, is all.”

“It looks ridiculous,” Gaston said bluntly. LeFou scowled.

“I’ve gotten a fair share of compliments, I’ll have you know. I’ve been told it suits me.”

His retort was almost prim. Gaston scoffed.

“Well _I_ think-”

LeFou cut him off sharply, “I don’t care what you think.”

Taken aback, Gaston could only lapse again into silence.

After he was finished with the dishes and tidying the kitchen LeFou went about the house doing this and that, keeping his head down, acting like Gaston wasn’t even there. Gaston sat in the corner and watched him, twirling another knife between his palms as he rubbed them together.

This was starting to get to him, he had to admit. He and LeFou had plenty of companionable silences, but that wasn’t what this was. Being this close after such time apart and not even looking at each other – he couldn’t describe it. It made him feel vaguely queasy. All was not right with the world. It _stung_.

In the fading light of the day’s end LeFou sat on the back porch, cleaning the boots Gaston had arrived in of all the mud and debris. Once he was finished with that he set about polishing them, hands steady and eyes focused on his work, taking his time.

Gaston leaned against the back door and eyed him. “We could play cards?” he finally hinted, voice quiet.

LeFou looked up at him blankly. “Sure.”

Gaston grinned in relief – though he was quickly disappointed. They played for over an hour. LeFou barely said anything the entire time. Gaston tried to make jokes and only got polite laughter, his other attempts at conversation were given one-word responses. It didn’t help, he realized, it usually wasn’t up to him to _lead_ the conversation – LeFou was so much better at coming up with interesting things to say.

Also, he noted, disgruntled: he lost far more than he typically did. His concentration must have been shot. That or…maybe before, LeFou might have been letting him win.

He had a hard time falling asleep that night because he was dreading the next day being more of the same.

His dreams were unpleasant, twisting. Memories or not, he couldn’t tell at first: in them he was a wolf, running, running. The woods were dark and red and blood dripped from his maw. He heard Belle screaming, and then he felt a noose start to enclose on his throat.

It didn’t end there. The dream kept going. He was falling. He was running. He was falling. He heard a gun fire and he was running away from it, running for his life – even though at the same time he felt the heated weight of the weapon, tight in his hand.

But how could he be both hunter and hunted? Predator and prey?

He saw LeFou’s pale face, lying on his back in the dirt of a battlefield, hair caked with mud. Gaston was standing over him at an impossible angle. His friend looked so small. No bigger than when they’d been boys.

LeFou’s eyes flew open. Blood ran from his nose and lips. _“Gaston, help me-”_

When he woke it was morning, and he stared at the ceiling for a space before he could get out of bed.

His hair still loose he pulled on his trousers, left his shirt untucked, and went looking for LeFou. He could smell something cooking in the kitchen.

LeFou stood over a griddle with a spatula, already dressed. Gaston looked at what he was working on – crepes. His nose wrinkled and his mouth twisted.

“Sorry,” LeFou said to him with an offhand glance – knowing what he was thinking. “No eggs.”

“What’s breakfast without eggs?” Gaston grumbled.

“Today it’s goat cheese, and white grapes, and these I guess. For some reason my chickens didn’t lay anything.”

“Well you should tell them they need to do their part,” he commanded, irritated, “if they expect you to keep feeding them.”

Gaston folded his arms. LeFou’s eyes slid over to him.

“Oh yeah,” he went in a casual tone, pretending to take that suggestion seriously. “I’ll sit down and have a talk with them. And after that I’ll have a meeting with the goat – you know, there are some things I’ve been wanting to get off my chest. Her grazing really hasn’t been up to par. If she doesn’t show some marked improvement,” he shook his head, “I might just have to let her go.”

Gaston was smirking with silent laughter at the jest, and this time when LeFou looked back at him they shared a smile.

This time, when they didn’t say anything for a minute, it didn’t seem awkward. It felt right.

Gaston leaned against the counter, already feeling much more comfortable.

“Have you got any jam?”

“What are you going to put jam on?” LeFou asked.

Gaston indicated what was in the pan; “Those.” His friend gave a scandalized look.

“You _cannot_ put jam on crepes, Gaston.”

“You can put anything on crepes, if you want to,” he retorted. “Anyone who says otherwise isn’t trying hard enough.”

“You are _disgusting_ ,” LeFou told him.

“You put fruit on crepes, yes? You put sugar? What is jam – it’s _fruit and sugar_ ,” Gaston stressed.

“It’s not the same.”

“It is absolutely the same. You’re being ridiculous.”

“No, _you’re_ being ridiculous,” LeFou returned, without pause.

“No, you are!”

“No, you.”

Failing to think of a better comeback, and since it was only the two of them, Gaston stuck out his tongue at him.

Without missing a beat LeFou reached into the bowl of uncooked batter and used the spatula to fling a small amount onto his shirt.

Gaston stared at his shirt, at LeFou, and then abruptly snatched the crepe out of the griddle and stuffed it into his mouth.

Startled, wincing with alarm, LeFou tried putting out a hand to stop him – too late.

“Ouch… _ow_ …” Gaston bent forward, screwing his eyes shut in pain.

“And now you’ve burned the roof of your mouth off,” LeFou noted. “Great job.”

“Worth it,” he declared in a triumphant mumble, mouth still full, beaming. He felt he’d proven his point. Whatever that was. Honestly, he couldn’t remember.

But LeFou was chuckling, and he looked genuinely amused, not resentful or tired. “I’ll go get you a glass of water,” he told him, shaking his head.

Things weren’t entirely back to normal, after that. Sometimes when Gaston said something LeFou would frown in disapproval, or sigh, where before he would have jumped to agree and been much more encouraging.

Still, it was markedly better than silence. Much, much better.

Gaston didn’t do much speaking at breakfast anyway. LeFou talked away, growing more animated as he fell into old habits, while Gaston ate. He filled him in on everything that happened in Villeneuve while he’d been gone, what everyone was up to. It wouldn’t have occurred to Gaston to ask many questions, to inquire what he’d missed out on – but he appreciated the information all the same.

But then, that was what LeFou was good for: he could always rely on him to see to the details.

“All right, I’m going out,” LeFou announced once the meal was over and he’d put the dishes away. “I told Monsieur Mouton that I’d help him finish fencing in his pasture today.”

“That’s clear on the other side of town. It’s outside the walls,” Gaston complained. “And it’ll take forever!”

“So? He’s paying me. Plus I’m sure his wife will give me some spare wool for my trouble.”

“But what am _I_ going to do while you’re gone?” he exclaimed. “I can barely go any further than your garden. I’m bored!”

“You can’t entertain yourself for a few hours?” LeFou gave him a skeptical look. “I don’t know, you could always sort the laundry or-”

Gaston gave an involuntary _“ha”_ to this and LeFou’s face closed off.

“You know what, figure something out on your own, then. Worse comes to worse I have an old bottle of _eau-de-vie_ stashed at the back of the closet. You can always get drunk,” he snapped out, and then left.

Gaston was left alone, again, not sure what just happened.

He was sick of being trapped inside. The weather was beautiful, and he looked outward with a longing sigh.

The problem was, while LeFou lived slightly back from the rest of town, it was still too close for comfort. If somebody wandered down the road and caught a glimpse of Gaston – well. Some sort of _conversation_ would ensue, wouldn’t it, and it stood a decent chance of not going well for him.

He washed up and finished getting dressed. Then, hit by sudden inspiration, he crawled out LeFou’s bedroom window, climbing his way up the back of the house onto the roof.

Gaston nestled above the eaves, made himself comfortable. He stretched out, tucked hands behind his head, gazing up. The sun and the cool breeze felt perfect against his face and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It wasn’t as good as being able to go for a walk, of course – but it was something.

Smiling pleasantly, he let his mind wander.

Despite that little bit just before he left, LeFou clearly was warming back up to him. Gaston knew that he would: how could his dear companion resist the draw of their lifelong friendship? He knew well how much he meant to LeFou. It wouldn’t be long until they were back to their old antics, travelling together and singing in harmony and drinking the night away.

There was of course still the problem of what to do about the _rest_ of the village.

Once he had his best friend back on his side, though, and their relationship was back to normal – it would be easier for everything else to fall into place.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep but the sun must have gotten to him, because the next thing he knew he was blinking lazily, as below he could hear the doors opening and shutting; LeFou saying his name as loud as he dared.

Gaston yawned and stretched. “Up here. No, I’m up _here_ ,” he called, watching LeFou turn his head anxiously until he figured it out.

“What in the – what are you doing up there? I thought you’d left!”

“And gone where?”

“Exactly!” LeFou stared up at him, walking close to the side of the house. “I was worried about where you might have gone off to, what might’ve happened.”

His round face was slightly pale with anxiety and there were still bags under his eyes – he hadn’t completely caught back up on his sleep. Gaston could smell the tension, the nervousness rising off him.

He grinned, resting one side of his face against one hand.

“You _were_ worried about me,” he noted, smugly. “You do still care.”

LeFou instantly turned exasperated. “I never said that I didn’t. I only-”

“Ah, fear not, LeFou. You don’t need to explain. How could anyone refuse the chance to be around me, no matter what? I’m irreplaceable!” Standing up halfway he carefully slid closer to the edge of the roof. “Besides, as I already told you: I missed you, too.”

He had – more than someone as straightforward and unsentimental as he had the vocabulary for. It’d been easy to not realize while still in the woods, because like with so much else he wasn’t thinking straight. But soon as he saw his friend again, heard his voice…it had felt more like “coming home” than almost anything else.

They’d been inseparable since they were seven years old, the day LeFou followed him home from school. This was a part of his life, important as hunting and fighting and being the center of everyone’s attention. Things weren’t right without LeFou. And Gaston always wanted things to go right, to be perfect. He needed LeFou by his side.

As he jumped down and landed on his feet, he was already stepping towards LeFou, closing the distance between them with a pleased look.

He realized that even LeFou’s scent was familiar to him, though he wouldn’t have picked up on it before. Not the smell of his clothes or his soap or the food he ate, but _him_ , the scent underneath that, purely LeFou himself. Somehow Gaston felt recognition to it, already.

He lightly clasped the sides of LeFou’s head and leaned in to nuzzle him, cheek to cheek - closing his eyes he rested his face in his shorter friend’s hair and breathed in through his nose; feeling something in him loosen and relax at the mingling of their scents together, that implied camaraderie. That belonging.

_Pack, safe, friendly, home._

“Gaston.” LeFou’s voice was muffled. His body had gone completely still. “What are you doing?”

His eyes flew open in bemusement and he leaned back to take in the look on the other’s face.

He realized, too late, what he’d just done. That it was something that really wasn’t normal to humans.

But it had felt normal to him. Once again, he hadn’t even realized.

LeFou was staring in complete bewilderment. Gaston gaped back at him, wide-eyed, as he struggled for something to say. Some way to explain.

Instead he backed up, shaking his head, and turned and fled inside the house.

He was standing there with one hand on his hip, the back of his other hand pressed to the space between his mouth and nose, as he tried to get ahold of himself, when LeFou came in right after him.

“I am sorry, but you don’t get to just walk away from me right now. What _was_ that? Were you…were you _smelling_ me?” LeFou demanded. Gaston flinched, forcing himself to make eye contact, but unable to find his voice. His pulse was pounding too hard in his throat. “Why…?”

He trailed off as he took in Gaston’s body language: the tension in his shoulders, the disquiet in his expression.

LeFou’s eyes widened a fraction. “You…can’t really shut it off, can you? The…werewolf things. Even now, when you’re still you…”

He wanted to lie. He wanted to say that no, he was fine, of course. He was human, he was normal. He’d come back, hadn’t he? He’d left all that behind.

But maybe it didn’t matter if he was in the woods with the others or not – maybe nothing about him would ever be the same again.

He broke away from LeFou’s gaze, staring into nothing as his hand dropped. “It’s like it’s always there,” he stammered, struggling to speak. “It’s like the wolf is _always there_. Even when I’m human, the way I react to certain things, the way that I see them…it’s trying to force its way out of me. To take control.”

His fingers curled and he looked helplessly at his hands, halfway expecting them to be turning into paws.

“I smell, and hear, things that I…I shouldn’t be able to, that I _can’t_ …” His body shook with effort as he tried to maintain even a fraction of his composure. “I don’t always know who’s in control, anymore. It or me. It’s not fair. Why is this happening to me?”

He wanted to sob. To scream. To wail. To…

To _howl_. He wanted to throw his head back and howl, send his despair to the sky; let the night take over, running on all fours, a life of simplicity, of fang and claw and blood.

Instead he bent forward, spine stiff, clutching at his temples with both hands, covering his eyes.

“Oh, Gaston,” LeFou breathed out. He just sounded sad.

Another pause, and then he tried to be tentatively hopeful:

“Well. The Prince was cursed, and he became human again. Maybe there’s a cure?”

Gaston tried to stand straighter, dragging hands down his face. “I don’t think it works that way.”

There weren’t many stories where _loup-garou_ were cured. Most, rather, ended with them being hunted down and dying.

LeFou looked away, biting his lip – probably thinking the same thing.

“The tales aren’t always very consistent, though,” he remarked after a minute. “Like, for example: do you have to change on the full moon, or not?”

“I-I think so.” Gaston blinked. “At least I’ve always been transformed during that time.”

“But, you can switch back and forth at other times too. Like the other day,” LeFou pointed out. “So it isn’t only the full moon, obviously. So you can change pretty much whenever you want, but then you _have_ to during the full moon?”

“I’m not really sure,” Gaston said, frustrated with these questions.

LeFou frowned intently. “How can you not be sure? You’ve been like this for months, haven’t you figured it out yet if-”

“Look, I don’t know! No one ever sat down and talked about these things, it was mostly learn as you go! No one _explained_ how it was to me.” He rubbed his throat. “I can tell you one thing, it’s true that we – that werewolves heal far quicker than ordinary. That they take vast amounts of damage like it was nothing.”

“What about silver, though? They say you can only kill a werewolf with a silver knife, or bullet. That they’re weak against silver. Is that true, or not?”

“I don’t know that, either,” he muttered.

LeFou was verging on apoplectic. “Well do you think that that’s _maybe_ something you should figure out? Considering the implications?”

“ _Yes!_ Obviously,” Gaston shouted as he spun around, clawing the air, arms waving. “I understand that it’s important, all right, but I can’t tell you what I don’t know! I just don’t know!”

LeFou swallowed back whatever retort he was going to make, gulping as he saw Gaston’s shoulders were raised, fingers twitching to make fists, nostrils flaring as his breath came ragged and fast.

He knew well what Gaston bordering on an explosion of outrage looked like, and this was it. He went silent and held very still.

Gaston felt his entire body vibrating, ever so slightly, muscles filling up with restless energy poured into them by his temper. He knew this sensation well too: heat and blood rushing to his skull, anger drowning out everything that passed for rational thought. His constant need for action on the verge of tipping over, into a need for destruction and _war_.

This time though the consequences could be far direr. He tasted a hunger biting as cold metal on his tongue, and could have sworn his teeth already felt sharper inside his mouth.

“Gaston.” LeFou stepped forward placing a hand on his arm. “It’s all right. Deep breaths. Listen to me.”

He ran his hand up his friend’s bicep a little, giving a reassuring squeeze. Just enough to get his attention.

“Breathe in, and out. Listen to my voice, Gaston.” LeFou spoke in a soothing confident tone, relying on what he always did to calm the other down now. “Let yourself relax…think about whatever makes you happy.”

He tried exhaling in time to LeFou’s words, feeling some tension starting to ebb out of the muscles in his back. His face didn’t feel quite so hot now.

LeFou met his eyes, giving his best reassuring smile – trying to hold him there, keep him anchored to the moment.

“The war,” he prompted.

“Yes,” Gaston sighed, eyes half-closing. Feeling better already, just thinking about _thinking about_ the best time of his life. His glory days.

“Remember the battles. The marching. Leading the charge, up and down those hills. Musket-balls flying, cannons firing, the scent of danger in the air,” LeFou said with enthusiasm. “The dirt under your feet, the skirmishes in close quarters, the blood-”

But the deeper Gaston started to sink into his fantasy, the more things started to warp.

_Blood. Darkness. Dirt. The scent of violence. The itch for a fight_. _Days of war followed by nights of drinking, carousing with whatever easy woman was available. Fucking and fighting, one after another, taste and smell, simple and raw._

Carnal, primal, lust and blood. The wolf in him was rising, hackles raised, ready to hunt and bite.

“The war widows,” LeFou was saying still, clueless, “and the powder burns, and bayonets-”

“Stop,” Gaston choked out, eyes flying open. “Stop – I can’t! LeFou, _stop!_ ”

He ripped away, turning to beat both fists against the wall hard, once. He left his hands there, pressing palms flat, leaning his weight forward into them, head hanging. Gasping for air as he did his best to control himself.

“It’s the wolf,” he wheezed. “It grows stronger when I feel…certain things. Things like anger, or fear. Thoughts that remind me too much of the hunt, of blood…makes it harder to keep it at bay.”

Whatever confidence LeFou had gathered had vanished from his face as he stared at his friend, shaken.

“You can’t get angry, or think violent thoughts, without losing control and turning into a wolf again?” he repeated in a disbelieving, somewhat high, voice. “That’s…going to be a problem.”

Gaston tried not to growl as he forced out past his teeth, “So I’ve realized.”

LeFou’s eyes darted as he gulped again – Gaston could smell his panic, expression struggling as he looked for a solution.

“All right. You…you need something to do. A way to work off all that restless energy,” he declared. “If you head straight back, behind the house, maybe twenty paces away, there’s a big dead tree. I’ve been meaning to have it chopped down for firewood. There’s an axe in the shed. Do you think you could do that, Gaston? Huh?” There was forced eagerness, like he was encouraging a child. “Does that sound like a good idea?”

Gaston tilted his head far back, shut his eyes, and for a moment just tried to _breathe._

Chop firewood. Yes. He could do that, certainly. It would be easy but it would be laborious. Give him something to focus on, yet without making him think.

He nodded, stiffly. “I’ll do it.” Pushing away from the wall he stomped off.

The last thing he saw before the back door shut behind him was LeFou standing there, numbly, gripping his curls with one hand.

*

Life in Villeneuve constantly went on its own way, rain or shine.

Quite literally: the only thing that really changed with the weather was it gave the residents something different to talk about. Yet another way to pass time as they milled about the market square or sat down over a pint in the tavern.

Any cloud in the sky caused hours of speculation. When the snow fell it sparked animated discussions of whether it was more or less than last year, the boldest making predications over how the next months would go based on the meteorological activities of but a few days. Eventually the old-timers would trot out their favorite creaky stories, waxing in reedy voices about the worst blizzard they ever saw, the longest-lasting storm, the coldest and the hottest days.

That last part had become especially relevant, lately. There was no denying the weather of early fall had given them much conversational fodder.

It was certainly the warmest that the youngest generation could remember this time of year ever being. It was shaping up like it might be a long hot harvest season.

That by itself wasn’t much of significance, except to occasionally remark on. The problem was however since the night that curse had broken, it hadn’t really rained. Not once.

The wells had far from run dry yet and the local river was still flowing. But the farmers were starting to grumble, and the housewives glanced to their window-boxes and vegetable patches with concern. The short-tempered were complaining loudly, because that was what they did, but sager heads than theirs were growing truly worried.

There’d been enough rain in the spring to get most of the crops through to harvest. But if it stayed like this all season, and the winter was just as dry, it would cause real problems come planting time.

It’d became the new favorite topic – the one that came up in every discussion, as could happen in small villages. Neighbors and friends repeating the same questions, asking each other over and over: when did they think it was ever going to rain?

LeFou overheard no less than four debates on the subject as he made his way through the streets, puffing along in the heat, head down. Possibly more, if he’d actively been trying to eavesdrop.

The thing was, though, he had more pressing things on his mind than the weather.

The flower-seller glanced up from where she was helping one of her assistants with a nosegay, squinting underneath her starched bonnet. “ _Allo_ , Monsieur! But where are you going off to?”

“Er, nowhere, Madame Posey! Just headed out for a walk.”

He passed by the modiste’s and saw the proprietor’s daughters draped against the side porch, fanning themselves, sighing miserably in the heat. He couldn’t help but notice they’d switched to half-mourning: he wondered if it the culprit was the passage of time, vanity, or practicality. Maybe some mix of all three.

“Cheer up, ladies,” he remarked before he could help himself. “It’ll all be over soon.”

The three squinted at him. “Do you know something that we don’t?” the shortest triplet demanded, suspicious.

“You have no idea,” LeFou deadpanned.

He kept moving before it could occur to them to question him further, seeking out respite in the shade of the tavern.

This time of day he was the only patron – excepting of course Old Henri, the village drunk who may as well have been part of the furniture. He was passed out in the corner. Peg and a single barmaid were behind the counter, polishing tankards, the younger woman looking bored out of her mind.

LeFou set both palms down hard on the edge of the bar, thud echoing in the otherwise silent tavern. “I need a drink.”

The barmaid, who’d been on the verge of dozing, almost fell over at the sudden startle. Peg had a much better poker-face, but her plucked-thin eyebrows went way up.

“Isn’t it a little early for you?”

“I had a really stressful morning,” was LeFou’s hoarse retort. “Just…the usual. Please.”

Peg was still looking at him funny, but she nodded, and pushed a glass of ale his way. Reaching into his pocket he realized he didn’t have anything smaller than an _écu_ on him – he tossed it down, uncaring.

“Whatever.” He gestured at Old Henri. “Buy him a drink, too.”

The barmaid went to poke at him, and he brightened right up and gave LeFou a cheery drunken salute. LeFou managed to return an expression that was slightly more grin than grimace.

His first drink was a big swallow. After that he tried to nurse his glass more slowly, buying himself time to calm down.

It was becoming abundantly clear that Gaston really hadn’t thought through the effects his permanent change was going to have. He seemed to have believed if went on like nothing ever happened he could somehow _ignore_ it, repress it through sheer force of will.

It very clearly did not work that way.

Now LeFou was hiding a werewolf in his house who didn’t know how to control himself, in what could only be considered dangerous proximity to the rest of the village if things got out of hand.

Dangerous for the villagers _and_ for Gaston, that was. People would’ve panicked enough at hearing he was back, or that there was _loup-garou_ nearby. LeFou didn’t care to imagine the reaction at hearing about both.

“How did I get myself into this mess?” he moaned, knowing Peg and her employee would ignore him. Frustrated drinkers talking about their problems to themselves came with the business.

What was he supposed to do? Kick Gaston out? That would probably have been the _smartest_ thing.

But LeFou…couldn’t. He would feel almost guilty as he did about abandoning Maurice. It could prove just as fatal for Gaston, after all. And there was no denying: LeFou still _cared_. He wanted to help. It was habit to think of Gaston as a friend before he was anything else more sinister.

Even if at times it felt like it was killing him.

The situation couldn’t last, though. There was no way he could hide Gaston in his house forever, for half a dozen different reasons. It was high time the other man actually faced up to the consequences of his actions: what he had done to the villagers, and to the Prince.

Finishing his glass of liquid courage, feeling decently fortified for what came next, LeFou once again found himself trudging back home to face a situation he wasn’t looking forward to dealing with.

To think a few days ago, everything had seemed so…relatively simple. In a jarringly short time his life had turned upside, into one big ball of stress.

A nagging voice was too keen to say to him, funny how that seemed to happen the moment he’d gotten involved again with Gaston.

Upon reaching the corner he had to turn down he spotted the baker’s assistant leaning against the wall, smoking a pipe. The other man grinned in recognition.

“Afternoon, LeFou.”

“Hey Jaspar. What’re you doing way out here?”

He indicated his pipe with a roll of his eyes. “If I want to smoke on my breaks I’m not allowed to do it near the shop. Boss says it stinks up the dough.”

“I see. Hey thanks again for the rabbits, yesterday.”

“ _Merci_ _à toi_. As I said then, I owed you one.” When LeFou opened his mouth to demur, Jaspar cut him off, “Look, if you hadn’t spent the better part of a day staking down my sister-in-law’s tomato plants, I would’ve been the one dragged in to do it. So, really…”

“All right, all right.” LeFou held his hands up with a smile. “So we’re even.” He should have been going – but one didn’t easily exit small-talk in Villeneuve without looking conspicuous. “How about this weather, huh?”

Jaspar gave a long low whistle, shaking his head. “Boss says it gets any hotter we won’t need to heat up the ovens.” He glanced over LeFou’s shoulder, towards the fields and untamed hills. “Say,” he remarked, changing the subject, “where do you think they’re going to put it, anyhow?”

“Where they’re going to put…what?”

“Hadn’t you heard? Our new princess really was serious about her desire to build a school for the village girls. She wanted to integrate the one we already have-”

“I’ll bet that went over swimmingly.” No wonder the Headmaster had been in such a temper of late.

Jaspar used the stem of his pipe to point. “There’s not really a good place to set it in town unless they want to buy out somebody’s shop. So rumor is they’re going to use one of the acres left to go fallow, that-a-way.”

LeFou did a doubletake as he saw exactly where Jaspar meant.

“That land _still_ belongs to the Prince’s estate? His father never parceled it off?”

“You see anyone working it?” Jaspar shrugged. “It’s funny, eh? Those little girls will be sitting down to lessons on an old piece of the Guillory farmlands.”

“I don’t think ‘funny’ is the word my great- _grandpère_ might have used,” LeFou had to reply. Jaspar paused before sticking his pipe back in his teeth.

“Touchy subject?”

“Eh, no…I mean, the land was all sold long before I was even born.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Good thing my aunt’s not alive anymore, though. She’d have a conniption.” He glanced at the fields again. “When…do you think they’re going to get around to doing that? Has anyone said?”

“No idea.” Jaspar blinked lazily, and shrugged a second time. “They could go any day now. Such is the power of princes.”

Great, because LeFou didn’t have enough problems: if they came this close to his house to build a new school it’d be even harder to hide Gaston.

“Say…” Jaspar spoke up with a frown, getting LeFou’s attention again. “Do you hear something?”

Soon as LeFou listened for it he heard, distinctly, the loud steady echo of an axe being used on a tree.

It completely skipped his mind if anyone came close enough they’d be able to _hear_ that. LeFou gulped.

“Oh, that, it’s just…” he stammered. “There’s this big oak behind my house. Paid somebody to cut it down for me.”

“Who?” Jaspar asked, curious.

“Some farmer’s son, nobody you know. I don’t even remember his name off the top of my head – I only met him the one time, but hey, it needed doing and he looked like he had strong shoulders. Although come to think, I should really be checking up on him about now…” He was walking backwards, and talking a little fast. “Gotta run, but hey, nice seeing you again Jaspar!”

LeFou went away quickly as he could without visibly fleeing the scene.

Back behind the house he caught his breath again as he approached where he’d left Gaston. He caught sight of his friend hard at work on the tree.

No, LeFou realized as he looked, not the tree he’d indicated: _a_ tree. The dead tree was already reduced to nothing but a thick stump, and so had two smaller trees right next to it.

Looking around he saw a stacked woodpile nearly twice as tall as he was. Gaston had even split the logs. LeFou’s jaw dropped. He had _not_ been gone long enough for that, he was sure of it.

He watched as Gaston swung the axe expertly, and it sank further in one blow than LeFou would’ve expected. He winced nervously.

Gaston had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and a few strands of hair had come worked loose, clinging to his forehead with perspiration. Still, he wasn’t even breathing that hard, for a man that looked like he was on his way to clearing an entire forest.

There was a well not far from LeFou’s back garden – having his own the only hint his modest dwelling had once been part of a larger estate. He went and filled up a clay mug with water, then approached Gaston again.

“You know, I think that’s enough,” he called over the sound of the chopping. “Here I was hoping to get wood to keep warm all winter. But I think you made enough logs to build a second house.”

Gaston stilled, and rested the axe’s head on the ground, leaning on it as he exhaled. He glanced back over what he’d done.

“You’re probably right. I may have gotten carried away.”

“A bit,” LeFou said dryly. He offered the water and Gaston dropped the axe completely to take it, drinking with noisy eagerness after laboring so in the heat. “But you seem, uh, calmer now.”

Gaston caught his breath, looking into the now-empty mug. “Yes. Yes, much better. It was a good idea, LeFou. Thank you.”

“You bet.”

LeFou picked up the abandoned axe, holding the handle lengthwise to examine it. There was a large crack splintered into the wood right near the middle – as if someone had been gripping it impossibly hard.

“Gaston,” he went slowly, trying to sound casual, “do you think it might be possible that you’re even _stronger_ now?”

“Possibly.” Gaston frowned. “Mighty as I am to begin with, how could you expect me to even notice?”

“Er…” LeFou had to turn toward the stumps again, dubiously. “I know you’re a well-practiced woodsman, considering how early you started helping out your father, but. Come on. Look at that. Does that seem… _right_ , to you?”

His frown deepened. “What of it?”

He didn’t want to talk or think about it, obviously. LeFou coughed into one hand, changing the subject.

“More water?”

Gaston shoved the mug back at him. “If you don’t mind.”

LeFou hauled it up from the well, filled the mug again, and returned. As he walked back he couldn’t help rubbing his shoulder with a grimace.

Gaston took another drink before he bothered to ask, “Something wrong?”

“I’ve got an awful crick, that’s all. And I think I might have pulled something.” His restless nights, all this running back and forth, it was starting to catch up with him.

“Oh? What’s that from?” Gaston asked, clueless. LeFou had to shoot him a look at that.

“From two nights of sleeping on my sitting room furniture, that’s what.”

Gaston made a face. “If it bothers you that much, why not just double up with me?”

Of course it wouldn’t occur to him to surrender LeFou’s own bed back to him. But his friend froze as he pictured what Gaston was suggesting.

That bed itself was actually big enough. Once upon a time it fit his aunt and her five children, LeFou in a cot squeezed into a smaller room off the side. The children had grown and soon as it threatened to get uncomfortable his aunt kicked them out one by one – the boys off to apprenticeships, the girls paired into marriage.

It had surprised everyone, especially LeFou himself, that Aunt Prudence left him the house when she passed. He’d cleared a lot of cluttered space but kept most of the furniture, including her big old bed.

But there was no way he was sleeping in it with Gaston. It was difficult enough when they shared a room at a smallish inn and their bunks were too close together, or sometimes when they bedded down out in the woods cattycornered to their fire.

Being that close to Gaston’s body, listening to him breath, made it hard for LeFou to keep his imagination from running wild. He’d lay there all night feeling too warm and uncomfortable.

Now, the thought of sharing the same blankets and sheets, his pillow right beside Gaston’s face, feeling it in the mattress beneath him every time he moved…

“That’s not happening,” he said at once.

“Why in the world not? We’ve shared a bunk before.”

“When we were – thirteen, and trying to save money at an inn. Or sixteen, and crammed into a barracks with a dozen others training to be soldiers. It was years ago.”

Gaston stared at him, hard, face shifting to a scowl.

“Do you not trust me? You don’t want a _loup-garou_ at your back in the night?”

LeFou’s eyes went wide. “That is not what this is about,” he protested. “Do not make it about you!”

“Well what else could it possibly be?”

And just like that – like that, LeFou had finally had it. He drew a breath, lifted his chin, and glared up evenly into his eyes.

“You know _damn_ well what.”

Now it was Gaston’s turn to be taken aback.

“What?”

“You know exactly why I don’t want to share a bed with you like that. Why I can’t,” LeFou insisted. “It has been how many years we’ve known each other – give it a rest. Even you are not actually _that_ oblivious.”

Gaston made an odd face, like he didn’t know if he was insulted or simply confused.

“I don’t understand what you’re…” he tried, slowly. LeFou held up a hand, stopping him. He felt tired and sick.

“I tried to drop a hint I don’t know how many times. And every time I was frustrated, or so upset, that it just went over your head. Every single time. And then…and then at some point, I started _really_ paying attention to what you said and did when I tried.”

LeFou grit his teeth, gesticulating with one hand.

“You would act nervous. Or change the subject. Or talk over me. _Loudly._ Like I was saying something that you didn’t want to hear. But at the same time…if you wanted something, really badly, and I was almost on the verge of saying ‘no’, there would be those little touches. You’d squeeze my shoulder, or lean in towards my face, or put your hand on mine. And finally, slowly, it occurred to me: that you _did_ know. You knew all along. You just didn’t want me to say anything so that you’d have to acknowledge it!”

He glared up at his friend. Gaston had a sheepish look on his face, trying to avoid LeFou’s eyes, shifting weight between his feet.

“You know that I like men,” LeFou stated confidently. “And at some point, you absolutely knew that I was in love with you.”

He waited for Gaston to say something, anything.

When he didn’t – that was all the confirmation he needed. That and the complete lack of surprise on Gaston’s face.

Oh, he looked dismayed, at what LeFou had to say. But not like any of it was unexpected.

LeFou deflated. It felt so much worse, he realized, to have it confirmed. Rather than something he simply suspected.

“You just didn’t want to admit that you knew,” he finished, much quieter, openly at a loss.

Even though he already knew what Gaston had done, there was still the question of _why_. Why had he done this to him? How could he?

Gaston’s throat worked a moment before it seemed he could speak.

“I thought…it would make things easier,” he offered, meeting LeFou’s gaze in earnest. “If I just pretended like I had no idea.”

“Easier for _who?_ ” LeFou said incredulously. “Easier for you, maybe. Because you would always have that secret way to manipulate me.”

“Now, LeFou-”

“Shut up.” LeFou clenched his jaw, feeling that sting in his eyes again. He swore he could almost kill Gaston himself, in this moment. “You did. You know you did. _I_ know you did. Don’t lie about it.”

“It’s not like…” He trailed off, then gave an attempt at an apologetic expression. “Look, I wasn’t trying to harm you on purpose.”

“You weren’t? It didn’t occur to you that might hurt me, constantly talking about women to me, asking when I was going to find a nice girl of my own? It didn’t occur to you, knowing I had feelings for you yet expected nothing in return, using that to lead me around might have some effect on my self-esteem?”

LeFou forced an ugly, manic smile.

“It didn’t occur to you that maybe, _maybe_ : you were my best friend, my closest friend, sometimes it felt like my _only_ real friend…and it would’ve been nice, it would’ve made things so much easier,” he shut his eyes in pain, “if I could have just _talked_ to you about it?”

“I don’t know why you would have wanted to talk to _me_. I mean…it’s not like I could understand.”

He opened his eyes to see Gaston shrug, uncomfortably. He scratched the back of his neck before looking at LeFou with an uncertain, hopeful smile.

“You’re right. I didn’t really want to admit it. I think no less of you for it, my friend, but surely you must realize-”

“Please don’t finish that sentence.”

He already understood. To be exceptional in the way Gaston preferred one first had to fit in. You couldn’t stand out for a bad reason. Gaston might’ve been the pinnacle of manhood, but having a friend who was _questionable_ might reflect badly on him.

The only way he could keep LeFou around and not have to worry about his reputation was with plausible deniability.

Proof of yet another way, yet another time, that Gaston had chosen his image and his ego, _himself_ , over LeFou. He always, always put himself first. It was like he couldn’t help it. It was an obsession.

That didn’t make living with it, watching Gaston leave him in the dust, any easier. Not at all.

“LeFou, be reasonable! I _wanted_ to remain friends with you. I still do. But I worried how that might work if we had to acknowledge your…differences. That I wouldn’t know how to act around you anymore.” He shrugged again. “So, I pretended that you weren’t. Simple as that.”

“Simple,” LeFou repeated.

Gaston really didn’t get it – how it felt, having to live in secret after he already tried stepping out into the light. Having to keep feeling like a liar, a fraud, constantly. All because it made _Gaston_ uncomfortable to know the truth.

“It was simple enough for you, _my friend_ ,” LeFou told him, bitterly. “For me it was anything but.”

Gaston stared at him in bewilderment. Concerned by LeFou’s anger, his emotional reaction, but unable to know what to say.

“I would say ‘forget it’ – but, you know what, you better not,” LeFou continued. “If one thing, exactly one good thing, is going to come out of this, it’s that you absolutely cannot act like you don’t know the truth about me, anymore. Don’t you even consider it.”

“I…wouldn’t.”

He did sound miffed, though. Like part of him still wished he could go back to things being _easy._

“Good,” LeFou spat, taking what he could get and hating it was all he could ask for.

Gaston frowned at him. “What now, though?”

“Nothing has changed,” LeFou muttered. He turned away from him and went toward the house.

Nothing had changed – and everything had changed. And yet, nothing had changed. It was the same pattern with them, over and over. It would wear LeFou right down into the ground.

This time he could hear Gaston trailing after him. But for once it was LeFou’s turn not to look back.

So he didn’t.


	4. if you could only see the beast you've made of me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I was the one who had it all  
> I was the master of my fate  
> I never needed anybody in my life  
> I learned the truth too late.”
> 
> \- beauty and the beast 2017, “evermore”

The woods were quiet, and Agathe was alone.

Nothing unusual about the latter part. It would be odder, in fact, were she not.

The former was not all that unusual either. This part of the woods was often so.

The sunlight fell dappled through the trees, the wind was still, and any birds singing did it from far away so their song reached her ears as naught more than a melodic echo.

She stood over the flattened stump she used as a table, squeezing out a cloth in her hands slowly as she transformed a mix of dried herbs into a poultice. The harvest time would be upon them sooner than any thought, like always. Accident-prone farmers and overzealous young hunters would need Agathe’s help. So long as she was here she would make a living somehow.

It had been weeks and she was no closer to unraveling the mystery. What had changed, out there in the woods. What was keeping that lingering part of her magic in place.

She could be patient though. She’d been here years already. What was a little more time?

Something moved out in the trees beyond her clearing, larger and noisier than any animal. Agathe stopped what she was doing and straightened to look in the direction of the sound.

The branches parted. A familiar face appeared, looking around, moving in a way that could only be described as “careful stumbling”.

It was Belle’s father.

He smiled at her in greeting, giving the satisfied _“ah!”_ of a man that’d found what he was looking for after possibly getting turned around in several circles.

Agathe stared. She felt something that hadn’t been evoked in her in a number of years that’d gone by uncounted – surprise.

“Maurice,” she said.

“ _Bonjour_ , Agathe.” He walked towards her, hands clasped politely behind his back. “I, ah, hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“No. Not really.” She glanced down, then back at him. Though she was in the habit to keep her expressions carefully guarded – Agathe was a beaten-down soul, and did not react to much – she was certain her bemusement was written all over her face.

Maurice stopped a respectable space away, not quite in arm’s reach. Conversational distance.

“It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? How have you been?”

“Well enough. But…what are you doing here?” she had to ask; not sure what to make of his sudden appearance, the way he spoke to her so casually. As if her having unannounced visitors could be remotely considered normal.

As if her having visitors, at all, could be considered normal.

Maurice paused. His expression shifted slightly though he appeared no less calm. Agathe watched him and across the distance she looked into his eyes.

She couldn’t she read minds. But sometimes when she looked at a person she received flashes of insight. A glimpse into their inner nature, the road they were headed down in life.

She was not a seer yet still – she could know for a moment what a person was thinking, feeling. And where their choices might lead them.

When she looked at Maurice she could feel his concern for her. Not a pitying concern: a respectable, neighborly one. She could see he was interested in her wellbeing. Paying more attention to her than ever had been by any, the entire time she was in this form.

He didn’t see a beggarwoman to be looked through. He saw someone to be spoken to as an equal. Someone who mattered.

Agathe was astonished to her core. She didn’t know what to make of it.

“There’s no light way to say this,” Maurice began, softly. “But Agathe – you saved my life. I know that I already thanked you for it, but it doesn’t matter. When a person does something like that for you, well, it’s as if you…forge a connection. You owe them something and always will. Even if it’s just the occasional moment of your time.”

She ducked her head humbly at his words, unsure how to respond.

“We haven’t crossed paths since I moved away. I came back, hoping I might speak to you…but they say in town that no one has seen you there for a while. Is everything all right?”

“Oh yes,” she said, unable to keep from smiling wryly. That this man would be worrying about her. “I’ve been getting along just fine. But thank you.”

She couldn’t help wondering if she’d overplayed her hand. There were other ways she could’ve tried to rescue him. Had it been wise to get involved so directly? If he was going to make this paying attention to her, checking up on her wellbeing a regular thing, it could get in her way as she went about her business.

At the same time, she found she was reluctant to chase him away.

She’d been playing at being human for so long. Maybe that meant even she could get lonely.

“You know…” He hesitated. “I’m aware this may seem forward but considering how much I owe you, how much we both owe you, Belle and I – if you were ever interested in coming to join us at the castle? I know that there’s plenty of room.”

Agathe was sure her face twisted oddly: she was trying not to laugh.

If she’d been what she appeared of course the prospect of a warm room inside anywhere, let alone a castle, would’ve been delightful. But for many reasons she did not desire to live there. It didn’t interest her, and she didn’t need it. Let him think she had an old madwoman’s pride.

“Thank you,” she responded, calmly. “That’s very generous. But I’m perfectly comfortable here.”

He raised his hands slightly as he looked around, silent. He was trying to find the appeal. Trying to understand why she would prefer an improvised lean-to under a dead tree in a woodland clearing.

Maybe he smelled the fresh air, or felt the sense of peace that came from being so near to nature’s utter stillness. But he was no fool. He had to know it got cold at night, that there was no safe place to store anything passing for valuables. That she’d no real bed to sleep on, little resources for food.

She waited for him to say something. But despite the dubious look on his face he let it pass. Trying to respect her wishes, even if he couldn’t comprehend them.

“Well, if you ever change your mind, the offer stands.”

“I’ll let you know.” She nodded.

She looked away to finish what she was working on. Maurice didn’t leave, and after a moment she took pity on him in her amusement.

“Please, sit.” She indicated the log nearest. He tried to make himself comfortable, still facing her way. She smiled to herself. “So,” she asked, sweetly, “how is your new life at the castle?”

“Good, good.” He paused; trying to decide how honest to be, no doubt. “It takes some getting used to.”

“I imagine so.”

“It doesn’t help the first time I saw it, I was frightened out of my wits and then held prisoner. Or that the place was still under enchantment. It made a grisly first impression. Still…it is a fine building when restored to its proper glory, I must admit. It’s only some days I wonder if it’s really meant for me.”

“Where would you go, if you didn’t stay at the castle with your daughter?”

“That’s just it.” Maurice was wistful and somewhat pained. “I don’t know.”

Belle had been his life for so long, Agathe knew. What was he to do now, with her married and grown? It seemed he hadn’t adequately prepared himself for this day.

“I was there when the curse broke,” she said, trying to make it easier on him. “I saw the way Belle and the Prince looked at one another. She may be the sort to take care of herself, but nonetheless your daughter is in good hands.”

“Oh, I know that. My one real worry over her eventual fate would be that she’d find someone who truly loved her, and in that I feel satisfied.” He chuckled. “It’s funny you mention it though. You going to the castle.”

“Why?”

“Belle told me that: you were there at the end. But it’s strange. I know, certainly, you didn’t leave with the mob trying to lay siege to the place. And you weren’t with the rest of us either, that came from the village after the spell broke and we wanted to see what’d happened.”

Agathe stilled where she was half bent over, wiping off her hands.

Maurice kept talking, that same slow tone. “You would’ve had to leave after the mob yet before the spell had broken to arrive when you did. Almost as if you _knew_ something was going to happen.”

Carefully she stood, back to him. She took her time rubbing a torn cloth between her palms, trying to figure out what to say.

“There was something else Belle said, too. That when she saw you, she thought you looked…different, somehow. In a way she couldn’t describe. And it’s not often my Belle is at a loss for words, as well you know.”

She closed her eyes, trying to keep her composure.

“It probably seems nothing of significance to most. Those odd little details in a story that never quite fit. For some reason though I’ve kept turning it over in my mind. And you know, something occurred to me.”

She turned to find he was already staring at her intently. Studying her face and form as he spoke.

“You see, the Prince should’ve died before the spell was properly broken. He bled out at my daughter’s feet; Belle swears up and down she felt his heart stop, saw the light leave his eyes. So I find myself thinking in order for him to have been restored, the being that cast the spell in the first place would’ve had to have been nearby. To have brought him back at the end that way, and give him that second chance. It’s the only idea that makes…sense. If anything about all this really does.”

She could’ve said something. Feigned confusion. But instead she merely stared back at him.

It never occurred to her anyone would notice enough, or grow suspicious, or stand any chance to realize the truth. There were too many circumstances standing in the way.

Maurice looked at her, eyes widening slightly, face relaxing with the surety of realization.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” There was wonderment in his tone. Even now he could scarcely believe – and yet he did. He knew. “Agathe… _you_ are the Enchantress.”

She let her fists hang at her sides, standing tall as she could in her wizened small-boned body.

“Yes,” she answered. “I am.”

She schooled her face into being expressionless but watched him cautiously. Not sure what he’d do next.

He tried to speak. His mouth opened and closed; he shut his eyes and shook his head slightly. Trying to let the knowledge fully settle.

“Well, I…that’s good to know, then.”

He sounded more composed, she was sure, than he actually felt. There was something detached about his voice. Vaguely giddy.

“You understand what this means?” she asked warily.

“What, exactly?”

“That Agathe isn’t real. There never was an Agathe – only this form I took on, so I could remain nearby and watch over the village and its people during the curse. I never make things happen directly once a spell such as this is in play,” she stated, “but at times I may steer events a certain direction. I saved your life because I knew it could lead to Belle and her Prince being pushed to recognize what they really felt for one another.”

Though she still spoke with Agathe’s voice, she’d reverted to her coolly confident manner. No one in Villeneuve would’ve ever heard Agathe talk like this.

She found she didn’t feel happy, telling him any of this. But it was the truth. He deserved it.

Let him back away from her, as mortals always did – she would know he understood then.

Maurice swallowed, holding up his head. “Was that the _only_ reason you saved me? As a means to an end? Or was there something else?”

It was an oddly prying question. “You and your daughter were always kind to me,” she admitted in a murmur. “I suspected for some time Belle might be the one he needed, to soften his isolated heart and break the spell. But I wouldn’t have left you there, regardless – you’re a good man, Maurice. Such a fate was not one you deserved.”

He smiled, though it was twitchy.

“Did you know what was going to happen, then? That night in the tavern? When we tried speaking out against the Captain – I remember wondering, you didn’t seem intimidated yet you said nothing when he dismissed you.”

She breathed in. These were dangerous matters to speak on. It was better for humans, the less they understood of magic.

“The future is never written in stone. But there are some things that become inevitable, paths you set yourself down by your actions. I could see what was coming when I looked into that man’s eyes. His wrath would be his undoing. There was no stopping him.”

“ _These violent delights have violent ends_ ,” Maurice recited. He glanced away, fiddling with a button on the cuff of his jacket.

Though he’d means now, she’d noticed he still wore the same careworn clothes he had for years. It suited him, she thought.

“Not to be argumentative, though…but I think you’re wrong.” He met her eyes again almost shyly. “About yourself. Agathe isn’t just some illusion.”

She frowned. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. I have been around for a long, long time, Maurice. I’ve had many faces, and many names.”

“But you’ve had this one for years. You’ve formed personal attachments. You said you cared for me and my daughter or at the very least you implied it. We aren’t just some set of pieces to be moved around the board to you, now are we. If you wear a mask for long enough…eventually, it stops being a mask.”

It was her turn to glance away, discomfited.

“In any case,” he continued, “if you were only trying to see your enchantment out to its end, then why are you still here now? It’s over. We have our happy ending.”

“It is not over, I’m afraid. Something has gone awry.”

Hearing worry in her tone, he instantly looked concerned. “What do you mean?”

“The spell should be completed, the magic gone away. But it hasn’t. I can still sense it out there; some of it. Having taken some form unexpected. And until I know why, I cannot leave this place. I dare not risk what could happen if it was left unchecked. I have to find out what happened and put an end to it.”

Maurice nodded slowly, absorbing that. She looked back at him, sharp.

“Don’t tell anyone. If the villagers knew-”

“Oh, it would start a panic,” he guessed, easily. “No, I won’t say anything.” He smiled at her in a meaningful way. “Your secrets – all of them – are safe with me.”

She realized little about his manner towards her had changed since the revelation of her nature. He was undoubtedly nervous; expected when dealing with such an unknown element. But she sensed no hostility, no lessening to his neighborly sensibilities. He trusted her instinctively.

He was still acting as if he found her interesting, simply as a person. He still cared.

Maurice continued smiling at her, gentle and friendly. It was Agathe now who expressed wondering bemusement.

“I would’ve expected you to have run in fear by now,” she half-joked.

He chortled. It was a touch strained. “You’re far more intimidating than any talking teacup, I’ll admit. Especially knowing what you’re capable of. What you did to my…son-in-law.”

“I did what I felt that I had to. And he deserved it. I don’t use my abilities lightly, only where I think they’ll make a difference.”

Others of her kind sought out their own amusement – they could be cruel. Maybe once she had been a bit, herself. But that was a time long forgotten.

The Prince had the ability to change where many men like him did not. There’d been more goodness in his heart than his outward manner suggested. It would take interference to bring it out – so she had _interfered_.

Maurice cleared his throat. “I’m an older man, and I’ve become very set in my ways. And experiencing magic, _real_ magic – well it’s not like it is the storybooks, now is it? It’s far wilder, rougher. Unpredictable. More dark and alarming, rather than the children’s plaything they paint it is.”

Instead of replying Agathe waited for him to go on, because she could tell he was struggling to put words to a thought.

“The thing is...now that my daughter is grown and I’m left looking at an empty nest, I’m forced to recall what things were like before she was born. I was bolder, then, I think. More imaginative.” He said shrewdly, “I was a young artist in Paris, brave enough to court a woman he knew he did not deserve. The man I was then would’ve jumped at the chance to see real magic. And he would be so disappointed with what I’ve become.”

“It’s not always easy for mortals to move backwards in time,” she noted with caution. “Or wise.”

“True. But some things about us, they never change, don’t you think? They only get buried.” He tilted his head and when he looked at her this time there was something about his gaze that was…charming. “Perhaps I’m curious to see if there’s anything left of that reckless young man that I was.”

She could picture it. Despite the years that’d passed there was a brightness still in him, a boyishness that came out when he joked and smiled.

Loss, grief, worries had burdened him with sedentary nervousness, a tendency to jump at shadows. But when cornered he was a braver soul than he gave himself credit for. When opportunity came he could still probably be a man who enjoyed having an adventure. Even if it was under protest.

“Reckless young men seem romantic to young women,” Agathe opined. “When the years go by, they learn a little patience and diligence can go a long way. I think there’s nothing wrong with the less restless, seasoned man you have become.”

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows – and _smirked_ at her.

She started, and very nearly blushed as she realized what she’d said.

“Never mind.” She brushed her hands against her skirt. “You should go, Maurice. I…the woods might not be safe for you. Things being as they are.”

It was no less true, for all it made a convenient excuse.

“I’ll be back,” he promised, even as he stood - letting her lead him out of the clearing the way he came. “I worry about you, out here by yourself. Enchantress or not you still saved my life. I’d like to see that you’re doing all right from time to time.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can. I’d still worry. Though certainly you can probably handle your own against a pack of ravening wolves-”

She’d been smiling slightly, at his chivalry and jovial air, but soon as he said that she went dead still.

“What did you say? The wolves were part of the curse. They should be long gone by now.”

“There are rumors they’re still around. Villagers and farmers claim to have seen them, heard them.” He shrugged. “It’s a big wood. Maybe it’s a different pack.”

It couldn’t be a different pack. Animals could sense magic and it made them afraid; no regular wolves would’ve dared move into the area so soon after _loup-garou_ had vacated it.

If there were wolves, they would have to still be the ones she trapped here with the curse.

Led by someone who was territorial, controlling – power-hungry. Any other would’ve taken the opportunity to leave, but she…

“Arethusa,” Agathe whispered. But of course. How could she have miscalculated so poorly?

That she-wolf wasn’t the kind to turn tail and run. A long imprisonment stood as good a chance to wear her down as it did to make her spiteful, hungry for revenge. If she’d stayed in the woods to claim it, then it was probably _her_ the magic had attached itself to.

Though she still couldn’t figure out how the werewolf would’ve manipulated the spell on her own.

“What was that?” Maurice was looking with faint concern, not having heard her.

She turned back to face him sharply.

“Listen to me. You must not come back into the woods alone. Don’t come out again this far either. If you truly wish to speak to me we’ll make arrangements to meet in the village. But it’s not safe for you to come here.” She grasped his arm. “Promise me you’ll do as I say.”

“What are you afraid of?” he demanded, wide-eyed.

“I can’t say. Not until I know for certain.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Now promise me.”

“I promise, Agathe,” he relented. “But if that’s the case then I’m going to insist on you meeting me in the village every couple of days. If the woods are so dangerous now I’ll only fret more if I don’t know where you are.”

“Fine,” she said shortly. She pointed through the trees. “That way. It’ll take you straight to Villeneuve. Once you’re there, wait until you can find someone to escort you back to the castle.”

It would be all right, she reasoned, trying to soothe her anxiety. The she-wolf was a monster but she was conniving – she wouldn’t come too close to the village so long as her pack was small.

She wouldn’t do anything to draw attention, risk them getting hunted down either. If the servants and villagers always traveled in groups when they went through the forest it would keep them safe.

For now, anyway. Who knew what would happen soon as she got closer to whatever she was planning.

Maurice bid Agathe _adieu_. After a second’s hesitation he reached out and gently took up her hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

Distracted as she was, it was only after the he’d gone Agathe realized she hadn’t tried to stop his gesture of affection.

*

Despite his protests, Cadenza made decent headway on his new “masterpiece” for the relatively short amount of time he’d been at work.

He spent hours at the harpsichord, scribbling feverishly over sheet music, ink staining his hands. He didn’t appear to be sleeping or eating much.

But he was a man driven by the creative process, an _artiste_. He had bags under his eyes, wig constantly askew; Adam couldn’t recall many times he’d seen him look happier. He seemed to thrive on the constant ups and downs, the highs of perfectionism and the lows of frenzied frustration.

His wife hovered over him, letting him lose himself in the process for a while, cheering or soothing as necessary. Eventually at opportune moments she’d gingerly steer him to take a bath or a meal or a nap.

Frou-Frou darted around her skirts, yapping and whining, but Garderobe could only fawn over one love at time. The disgruntled terrier was forced to scamper off and find someone else to beg for affection and treats.

Adam would watch the couple in this manic arrangement from a safe distance, idly fascinated. They made an odd picture and anyone else might be worried. But he knew they could handle themselves.

“I’m glad you two decided to stay on,” he confided to them, once. “I couldn’t imagine the castle without you. Though I’m certain no one would’ve been surprised if you took your leave – considering how long you were trapped here.”

“Ah, but that is over now,” Garderobe had replied. “Strange as that ordeal was, in a way it is a relief to know: if we remain here, odds are nothing _worse_ will happen to us.”

“My darling, as always, she is perfectly right,” her husband chimed in. “Though it’s true we ended up staying on far longer than our initial engagement, we’ve come to love it here. This castle, this country. To return to a life traveling from one destination to another, seeking out the applause of unfamiliar crowds…who knows what risks we’d take. What out there we may encounter. This world, she is still not so civilized as we like to pretend.”

“And praise from those yet unknown audiences, it may ultimately be less satisfying.” The singer beamed. “Sometimes nothing is more pleasing than approval from those you already know and have come to love.”

“I think I know what you mean,” their Prince said with a smile.

The conversation came back to him as he stood on the first-floor terrace, one fine early afternoon. Many of the windows and even doors in the castle were open to air out the warmth from inside – he heard the sounds of Cadenza’s playing drifting out behind him.

He watched as across the grounds gardeners toiled, working away despite the sun beating down, shaping their horticultural masterpiece.

The gardens had been the one thing most in need of attention after the curse was broken. In the time before he attended to them sparingly, only concerned with them as much as necessary to be fashionable.

For a time, he’d all but hated the sight and smell of flowers. They reminded him of his mother. He had the most complicated relationship with roses, even _before._ Admiring their classic beauty even as they created the most embittered feelings within him.

That single red, withering bloom served as the final perfect joke played upon him by a callous universe. Because of course, he’d thought – _of course_ it would be a rose.

When the curse was in place he’d brave the cold outside to visit the trellis where the white roses grew, distantly fascinated by their resilience. How did they keep growing despite the hardship they faced – and why did they want to? What was the point?

The white roses had their final victory, though, in the end. Now they were well-tended for. Now the garden was full of roses – white, pink, yellow and of course red.

Belle adored roses. Adam found, given new significance, he’d become quite fond of them himself.

Their fragrance drifted on the warm heavy air of the afternoon as he stood there in pensive happiness.

It was remarkable how differently he felt about so many things. What a change to thought and manner the entrance of true love into one’s life could bring.

There was a soft rustle to his right, and glancing behind Adam found to his ever-present delight that Belle approached him.

“Come to join me, have you?” He reached out, taking her offered hand.

“I may as well.”

She pouted, distracted by her thoughts almost to the point of indifference to his presence. Almost; her fingers had laced with his at once.

“I’ve had no luck tracking down those books recommended to me on school management and education reform. And then I was going to sit with Papa, but I can’t find him anywhere.”

“He’s not in his workshop?”

Maurice had, with the help of his daughter, claimed a large parlor in the wing nearest his bedroom to work on his paintings and other projects. Belle shook her head.

“It was the first place I checked.”

“If you want I can help you look for him. We’ll turn over every cushion and search behind the potting shed,” he joked, earning a glance of fond exasperation.

“He’s probably fine. He said he meant to visit the village soon – I’m only surprised he’d go off without even saying goodbye to me first. He must’ve had something on his mind.”

“Well if you change _your_ mind, let me know. I have to be careful about letting you out of my sight.” He kissed her hand. “Otherwise you’re liable to vanish on me as well. You have a habit of it.”

She wrinkled her brow in confusion until she realized what he was referring to.

“I can’t believe you’re still upset about that! I must’ve apologized half a dozen times.”

“I’m not really angry,” he admitted, chuckling. “I never was. But only imagine, poor me-”

“Oh, _stop_.”

“-waiting on his love with bated breath, who’d sworn to me she would be only be gone a moment-”

“Now really.” She pulled her hand free, crossing her arms.

“-and instead kept me languishing for what must have been well over an hour,” he finished, unrepentant.

“It was not even fully an hour, barely more than half of one at that,” Belle retorted. “And it wasn’t at all intentional. And, as I’ve already explained to you, I was having a very important conversation! It was the first chance I’d had to clear the air with Monsieur LeFou and I wasn’t going to waste it.”

“I know, I know.”

He stroked her hair, patting her head a bit – enjoying the heated look in her eyes when she scowled at him. Her fire, her determination was beautiful; dangerous as it was he liked bringing it to the surface for him to admire.

“And I’m glad you did get that chance. It was a worthy use of the time. But I’m gifted so few opportunities to tease you, Belle. Let me have my fun.”

“You have plenty of avenues for ‘fun’,” she shot back – with more fervor than she meant, for she didn’t resist when he draped an arm over her shoulder, pulling him to her side.

He made a thoughtful hum. “None I enjoy half so much as this.” He bent down to kiss her lips.

For a space of time everything melted away, as it always did. All that existed in his world was her, and him, and the way it felt when they were together.

And then those wonderful if unnamable sensations akin to warmth, poetry and floating on air ceased when he heard someone nearby clearing their throat.

Adam pulled from where he’d entangled his wife in his arms, to find Lumiere awaiting with a beatific smile.

“Perfect timing, Lumiere,” he commented archly.

“My sense of timing is never anything less, I know.” He bowed, unfazed. “Pardon the interruption, Master, Milady, but you have a visitor.”

Adam stole a glance to Belle, who only shrugged, and with a sigh he nodded.

With a wave of his hand Lumiere stepped aside – and onto the terrace ushered out Monsieur LeFou.

“Ah.” Adam couldn’t but blink, considering the coincidence. “Well now – _quand on parle du loup_ , indeed.”

The shorter man went still in his tracks. “What?” he exclaimed, startled.

“It’s just a figure of speech, LeFou.” Belle approached him with a welcoming smile. “How nice to see you again. What brings you out all this way?”

“Ah, I was hoping, if possible, well…I’d actually like to talk to…” He had to clear his throat, pointing at Adam. “Him.”

Belle was surprised, but moved aside obligingly. “By all means.”

She gave Adam a look behind LeFou’s back, nodding slightly – he understood. Whatever her new friend wanted she’d appreciate if he took care of it, as a favor to her.

He saw no reason not to. LeFou might’ve been part of the mob that attacked the castle, but if held that against everyone he’d have no subjects left. Adam smiled encouragingly, gesturing.

“I’m all ears, good man. Is this an official request?”

He meant it as a light joke to set the other at ease, for the villager was visibly nervous.

It seemed however to have the opposite effect. LeFou stood up straighter and kept moving his hands, tugging the cuffs of his sleeves.

“Actually, yes. You could consider this a petition to you, in your authority and offices as Prince, your excellency – I don’t know if, if you’d need it to be in writing, maybe – though of course if you _did_ , er, I’d need to find someone else to write it down for me, and read it back, since I can’t-”

Adam held up a hand, cutting to end the stammering. “Please, Monsieur. It’s all right. Would you perhaps prefer to talk about this in private?”

LeFou stole an embarrassed look Belle’s direction, not quite meeting her eyes. He nodded. “Yes. Your grace. If…if you don’t mind.”

Whatever this was it was clearly important, considering how grave and nervous LeFou was acting.

Now it was his turn to give a meaningful look to his spouse, implying a question. Belle nodded subtly as she could, then raised her voice.

“While you’re doing that, I’m going to have another look around and see if Papa hasn’t turned up yet. _Au revoir_ , LeFou.” She gave his arm a friendly squeeze and then exited first.

Once she was gone, wordlessly, the prince led the way and his subject obediently followed. Inside as they approached a winding set of stairs, he turned to beckon for a servant – this part of the castle didn’t have as many windows and could be rather dark.

But Chapeau was already standing right behind him, holding up a large candelabra to provide the necessary illumination. His other arm behind his back, he gave a dutiful nod.

“Lead the way,” Adam ordered.

The three went up the stairs and down the carpeted hall – Chapeau, then Adam, with Monsieur LeFou trailing close behind, stealing around a glance occasionally. He probably hadn’t seen this part of the castle before. The rooms were more officious, stuffy, where Adam would meet other nobles to discuss matters of business, or receive the rare messenger from Versailles.

At last they entered the space he’d designated as his private office. With a large wooden desk, a tall highbacked clawfoot chair, a matching globe, walls adorned with coat-of-arms and genealogical tapestries – it was probably the most depressing space for him to be trapped in. He’d avoided it at all coasts, before the curse.

After…well he was trying to be as much a better ruler, wasn’t he, as he was a better man.

It was his grave displeasure to be seated behind that ugly uncomfortable desk for hours, looking over papers detailing taxation rates and land allotments, the tedium of responsibly managing his vast estates.

“You may leave us, Chapeau. That will do.” At least the room had a window, and facing the east side of the grounds it was far brighter.

Once the door was shut in the tactfully silent man’s wake, Adam leaned against the front of his desk, grasping arms at opposite biceps and stretching out his ankles. He saw no need to wait on extra ceremony.

He’d something of a soft spot for the Villeneuve villagers. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was because so many of them had married his own servants. Or mere proximity to his castle. Or maybe it was just that it was, after all, the hometown of his beloved.

In any case he gave the other man, a relative stranger to him, as comforting an expression as he could.

“All right then, here we are. Whatever this petition of yours may be, I promise to hear you out fully. You may state your case.”

Monsieur LeFou looked to the ceiling as if that’d somehow grant him strength.

“Right. Well. So,” he began, weakly. “There’s not a really a good way for me to ease into…”

He cleared his throat and sucked in a breath, propelling himself onward.

“Gaston is still alive. He’s alive, and I…he turned up a few days ago, near the village, so I brought him back to my cottage. He’s been hiding there ever since.”

The genial look had been wiped off Adam’s face cleanly as he gaped at the other man in shock.

_“What?”_ he demanded, flat.

It wasn’t possible. It’d been going on three months now, and if they never found a body he attributed that to the curse cleaning up after itself.

The hunter might’ve been a brute of a man but Adam had seen the distance he’d fallen: he couldn’t have survived. _Couldn’t_ have. Even if his neck hadn’t broken the instant he landed, his injuries would’ve been far too severe.

But by god – if Gaston was still alive. His mind whirled at the implications, what this could mean. His first thought was of Belle.

No wonder LeFou had been too guilty to look at her.

“I wasn’t sure what to do.” LeFou was still speaking, hurriedly. “I know I should’ve gone to the constable, turned him in, but I…” He shook his head despairingly. “You don’t know what it’s been like in the village. Listening to people talk about him now, the way their opinions have changed. Some of them missed him. But most, well, they’re angry. They’re really, really angry.”

“I should imagine so,” Adam returned, unsympathetic. “Considering what that man nearly cost them. Considering what he almost cost us all.”

“I know. Believe me, I know,” LeFou said in a much smaller voice. “I’m not trying to help him avoid justice. Gaston needs to be punished for what happened, he…he needs to face consequences for his actions.” He tried to gather his confidence again, solemn. “But I don’t think _justice_ is what he’ll get, if I turn him over to the village.”

Adam pictured the mob that he’d glimpsed from his tower window that fateful night – the rage of simple determined folk armed with pitchforks and torches, riled up by fear.

“Probably not,” he agreed.

Standing up he circled back, pulled out his chair behind the desk, avoiding looking at the other man with a deep frown. As he sat down he glanced at his own hands, lost in thought.

Of course a spiteful part of him felt Gaston would only get what he deserved if the villagers descended upon him. It would be the ultimate measure of punishment suiting the crime: suffering the same fate he’d once tried to deliver unto others.

But – he dragged the sentiment out of himself, begrudgingly – that really wasn’t _right_. No man, perhaps even Gaston, deserved to be treated like that.

Anyway, he remembered his duty. As a ruler he was supposed to maintain a sense of order. That was the balance to his power, his life of comfort and wealth, his authority over others. It was his responsibility to see laws were followed, fairly, and people’s needs were met.

Gaston was guilty of treason, deceit, and attempted murder. But before he could be punished he needed to be tried. Either before a magistrate – or by Adam himself, in a short audience where he weighed the crimes and meted out what he thought was fitting sentence.

But what could possibly be fitting, given the particulars? The matter was confusing, and personal.

And there was no legal name for the crime Gaston committed against Belle, for which Adam found he was filled with most rage over. A coward that tried to shoot him, he felt resentment and disgust. But the disrespect and manipulation aimed her way struck at him as the closest thing about this to true evil. No man should treat a woman that way – least of all someone he _claimed_ to love.

Adam looked up again, at last.

LeFou clutched his hat in both hands, fingers twisting in the brim. With shoulders drawn he stared at his prince with foreboding. His eyes wide, he appeared briefly younger than he was, small.

Adam’s feelings shifted as he remembered who he was talking to. His fleeting impression had been LeFou was a good man with strong moral sensibility. But he’d also been Gaston’s closest friend – and, Adam came to understand, was believed by many to have feelings towards the other greater than friendship. And for that, he’d been used and betrayed like the rest.

He couldn’t imagine what LeFou must be feeling. How conflicted he must be.

“If Gaston turns himself into me, you understand that will be it,” he explained sternly. “There will be no chance for appeal, and not much room to present a defense the way there would be in the courts. Whatever I decide, that will be his fate.”

“I know.” LeFou squeezed his eyes shut. “And I know I have no right to beg for any mercy. To expect _anything_ from you, considering what he did to you and Belle. But…Gaston is still my friend, and I won’t lie: I don’t want him to die. And I don’t want to see him suffer.”

“Most would consider what he did more than fit for a death sentence. If not that, then, the options are likely a long imprisonment, banishment, or a period of forced labor. Or some combination of the three.”

There were other things he could command, of course. He could have the man tortured, mutilated, transported to some remote colony. It was his will to enforce, no one could stop him.

It’d never quite hit Adam as it did this moment, how great and terrible his personal power could be. The life of the man that’d tried to kill him was in the palm of his hand, he could wreak unspeakable vengeance if he so desired – and nobody could stop him.

He discovered he found no pleasure in that.

How much happier he’d been when Gaston simply died as result of his own malice and Adam didn’t have to decide anything, or be responsible for his fate.

LeFou moved one of his hands, offering a feeble smile.

“You and I haven’t interacted much, one on one, your grace. But…you strike me as a good guy. I trust yours will be the fairer hands here than those of our neighbors, sad to say. Whatever you decide I’ll accept your judgement.” He lowered his gaze. “I know your job here isn’t going to be easy.”

“It certainly will not.”

Adam showed more frankness than would be considered appropriate to a subject, one making a penitent request of him at that. But he was moved by the earnest faith LeFou was putting in him.

Disgruntled, he rubbed his forehead. “How did he even survive?” he muttered, still baffled by the question. “Where has he been hiding this whole time?”

LeFou paled, his throat working. “About that. There’s something else you need to know. It’s part of the reason I think it’s so important you be the one handling this, actually…”

He trailed off. Adam waited, lowering his hand to give the other a penetrating look.

LeFou had a nervous, vaguely hysterical expression. “Gaston is a werewolf now.”

To think he’d been astonished enough by the revelation the man was still alive. Adam’s jaw dropped.

“He’s _what?_ ” he exclaimed incredulously.

“It turns out there was one in the forest, and I guess it found and bit him, after he fell. Werewolves are strong and can heal injuries faster. So once he changed he recovered just fine. But uh, basically he’s been living in the woods as a wolf ever since…” He was gesturing randomly with one hand, the other still clutching his hat. “He only recently was able to make it back.”

“A _werewolf?_ ” Adam stood, leaning forward. “The things that man was capable of before, and now you’re telling me-”

“I know. I know – but, please. Just hear me out. He didn’t ask for this. Your grace, if _anyone_ can understand-”

A wave of Adam’s old temper, his vain arrogance swept over him and he glared at the other man, who instantly fell silent. The prince had to swallow back the words “ _how dare you”_.

His curse had been a punishment, yes. To teach him a lesson. A nasty cure that still ultimately had done its work.

But _loup-garou_ were monsters. Wicked men who sold their souls, traded their sanity and their bodies for power, said to steal babies and eat the flesh of other men.

Then again…he remembered, with an inward twinge, the Beast that _he_ had been. The animal urges he couldn’t always control, no matter how much he despaired of them. He had hunted, with fang and claw, and been violent and simple when his instincts got the better of him.

He remembered the things he’d been falsely accused of doing, too – simply because of what he’d been turned into. Because of how he looked, how he could be called a “monster”.

LeFou was right. If anyone could understand this, maybe it _was_ him.

“Go on,” Adam said in a low voice, wearied, soon as he once more had control of himself.

LeFou started off in a squeak, still intimidated: “He hasn’t hurt anyone. Not while he’s a wolf. But he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He has no real idea what his powers are – we’re not even sure if he has to change during the full moon, or if silver has any effect on him.”

He spread his hands beseechingly.

“If you’re going to have to lock him away, don’t you think it’d be better if you knew what his weaknesses were, or what to look out for? You can’t – you can’t send him away, in this state. Not without any idea what might happen.” He pleaded, “Just give us a chance to figure this out. Don’t you think that’ll be better for everyone?”

“You want more time,” Adam realized, grumbling.

“Yes, your grace. Please.” His piece spoken LeFou bowed his head humbly, anxious.

It was far from a small request. Let a dangerous man remain free, possibly putting everyone around him at risk? Conceal from the villagers there was a werewolf nearby? And how was he supposed to trust Gaston wouldn’t be up to something with whatever time Adam gave them?

There was still some sense, though, in what LeFou said. Sending Gaston to a labor camp would be good as a death sentence anyway if he couldn’t keep from transforming in front of witnesses. They’d burn him for that.

And if he was going to keep a werewolf locked away in his castle then it’d only be wise to learn as much as possible beforehand. How to control him, how to keep him there.

Sitting back down Adam laced fingers together and leveled them in front of his eyes. He wasn’t pleased by of this.

“When was the last full moon?”

“Erm,” LeFou squinted, thinking, “ten – twelve days ago? Yes. Twelve days.”

Adam nodded, making up his mind.

“All right then. I will give you until the _next_ full moon. Exactly one week after that, I will send my guards to your house. Gaston will surrender himself to their custody and they will bring him back here, where I will pass judgment on him for his accumulated crimes,” he said tersely. “If he behaves himself, if he stays put, doesn’t stir up any trouble with the villagers and remains out of sight, then I’ll bring that into consideration when deciding my sentence. But I will also speak to Belle and Maurice and take their feelings into account as well. Do you understand?”

“Yes. That’s…more than generous of you, your grace. My lord. My prince,” LeFou said breathlessly, backing up and bowing.

Adam didn’t bother trying to give him any looks of reassurance. Frankly his mood now was too solemn and too foul. He stood, walking forward as the other kept head lowered and eyes on the ground.

With a stern frown Adam stood beside him and, as LeFou finally looked up hesitatingly, he raised his right hand toward the other.

Understanding, LeFou pressed a light kiss to the back of Adam’s signet ring, bowing over his hand.

It was a gesture of supplication that Adam rarely initiated anymore, but given the weighty request that had been granted – the seriousness of the promise they’d both agreed to – he felt the formality was warranted.

“Go,” he ordered. “We’re done here. And if it’s the same to you, I would prefer not to see you in my home for a while.”

“Thank you, again, I…thank you.” LeFou bowed one last time then quickly let himself out.

The room was quiet in his wake. Adam considered for a moment.

“Chapeau?”

He had hardly to raise his voice – as if he’d been waiting outside the man let himself into the office, standing at attention.

Adam returned to his desk, sinking into the chair. He tried to remain expressionless.

“Bring me one glass of cognac,” he ordered, clipped. “After you deliver it to me, wait half an hour and then tell my wife that I would like to speak with her, at her earliest convenience.”

“Very good, my lord.” Chapeau bowed, showing no reaction to the request for liquor early in the day, or anything else for that matter. He left with as much silent efficiency as he’d entered.

Alone again Adam gazed into space feeling disgruntled.

“A werewolf,” he said, aloud. “Out of all the things…”

The situation was going to be a mess and somehow, it was his responsibility to deal with it. He sighed.

It was funny, in a way. He was sure most would’ve assumed that he hated Monsieur Gaston.

But hatred required a level of familiarity, and Adam never really knew the man. Save for the fateful night, they never met; he thought of Gaston mostly as a stranger. He knew _of_ him through other people, the stories they told, and his feelings of righteous anger were, he found, more on behalf of his other victims.

Especially Belle. Though she did her best, what she’d almost been forced into still haunted her. Adam felt the greatest pain from the bitterness he’d see etched into his wife’s face.

He didn’t look forward to telling her that vile man still lived after all. It didn’t take someone who knew Belle well as he’d come to, to realize her reaction would be severe.

He grimaced and turned his head to look out the window in the direction of the sun.

Certainly there was something fittingly ironic in it. Now it was the vicious hunter’s turn to become the beast. He’d wanted to kill a monster for superficial reasons but now _he_ would be the pariah, the one they ran from in fear and disgust.

Considering that Adam could remember what those gunshots to his back felt like, he was hardly overflowing with sympathy. But still…

Reluctantly his mind drifted back. To when he’d had Gaston by the throat, in his rage on the verge of dropping him or tearing him apart.

_“Please, don’t hurt me, Beast…”_

True, the main reason he’d come to his senses was the reminder: he was not a monster after all. He was something, someone better. He didn’t have to lash out in his impulses anymore – he could rise above, be the man it’d be supposed his mother had wanted him to be. The man that’d won Belle’s affection, despite his frightening exterior.

Underneath that though there’d been something else – a twinge, a shock of recognition.

When he couldn’t help but think back to the night of the curse befalling them, and him on his knees before the Enchantress. Begging her to spare him. Saying he would do _anything_.

A callous, selfish man who thought of none but himself, reduced to a cowering child when he came face-to-face with the cost of his mistakes.

He’d seen that look in Gaston’s eyes as he held him out over the void, and been chilled to realize that once upon a time that look had undoubtedly been his own.

Maybe that was ultimately why it was hard for him to despise Gaston all that much. They shared many of the same sins.

Shutting his eyes, Adam leaned his temple against the heel of one palm.

“I would say may God have mercy on your soul, Gaston,” he remarked to the air. “But who knows if you deserve any.”

As the grander scheme of things went, the prince felt he was qualified to make _that_ particular judgment the least of all.

*

Within the confines of the isolated house, the noise echoed sharply as a plate was hurled into the wall.

Shattering into three large pieces it fell with a clatter, contents spilling across the floor.

“You did _what?_ ”

Gaston shoved away from the table with a continuation of the same violent energy.

LeFou turned from the other man’s furious expression with a wince, grimacing as he glanced towards the mess on the floor.

So much for thinking there was any chance they could have a nice dinner and discuss this rationally. Not that he was that surprised Gaston wasn’t taking it well. Still, he had hoped…

He sighed. “Gaston-”

“I can’t believe this!”

He’d gotten to his feet and was pacing back and forth at one end of the room. LeFou rose as well, slowly, watching him in consternation.

There’d been a time when he’d been so used to Gaston’s moods he barely batted an eye at them. Confident that when push came to shove he’d always be able to calm his friend down before anything _really_ bad happened.

He knew now that wasn’t true. He’d seen how Gaston’s rage could grow. It’d been worse than he’d ever imagined.

And that was without the extra consequences _,_ these days, that giving in to his anger could apparently have.

“I understand that you’re upset,” LeFou said carefully, in an attempt at his most reasonable tone, “but you know that you need to calm down.”

Gaston didn’t appear to hear him. He kept pacing, shaking his head, scowling. He turned to LeFou in a snap, expression incredulous as it was angry.

“How could you do this? What were you thinking?”

“I’m trying to help!” LeFou’s voice rose defensively.

“You _turned me in!_ ” came Gaston’s retort, outraged. “How is that helping?”

He gripped the back of the nearest chair and for a moment it looked as if he might throw that too. Fingers clenched, he breathed in audibly, hard – finally he twisted away, releasing it as he resumed pacing.

LeFou had been holding a breath of his own. As he exhaled, he reminded himself to try being patient. It stung that after the effort he’d gone to, Gaston was once again only thinking of himself and missing out on the big picture – but he couldn’t pretend it surprised him.

He’d just have to explain it until he understood. It’s not like it’d be the first time.

“I am trying to come up with the best possible resolution for everyone! You’ve been back for, what, less than a week? Surely you have to realize – _this_ isn’t a long-term solution.”

 LeFou gestured around them.

“Were you planning to spend the rest of your life hiding in here?”

“Of course not!”

“So then what?” He waited long enough for it be clear Gaston didn’t have an answer before he went on, speaking with heated confidence. “Eventually other people will realize that you’re still alive. And pretty soon after that, they might realize what’s happened to you. Your changes aren’t exactly…subtle.”

“Well why wait for them to figure it out when you can just _tell everybody?_ ” Gaston griped. LeFou swallowed back his exasperation.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about what I was planning,” he said, peevishly. “But I knew you weren’t going to like it.” He stepped closer towards his friend. “Now I think if you take a moment to clear your head and really consider what I’m telling you-”

“Since when do you make up my mind for me?” Gaston snapped. “What gives you the right?”

There were multiple things LeFou could’ve said to that. Most of them were _unkind_.

He went quiet for a moment as he tried not to lose his own temper.

Why did it always have to be this way? He’d come to begrudging terms how he’d always be the sort that gave too much, that put other’s happiness over his own. He could live with that. It was just how life had shaped him.

But he gave, and gave – and Gaston just took. From him, from the whole village, from everyone he’d ever crossed paths with.

And he never acknowledged it, either; just acted like it was the way the world was supposed to be. He was given everything he ever wanted and his only response was to sulk like a child and demand more.

He was trying to be sympathetic to Gaston’s current position – out of choices, out of luck. But it was difficult, given their history.

And given the fact LeFou was working hard to find solution to such a convoluted predicament, and Gaston wasn’t even trying to see things his way.

Not that _that_ could be considered much of a surprise, either.

“Gaston, listen to me,” LeFou stressed, keeping voice even but not hiding his mounting irritation. “I’m trying to keep you _alive_. If the villagers are the ones that catch you, I don’t think that’s going to go very well. This is the best possible option. And the Prince is cutting you a lot of slack by giving us time to figure out what’s going on.”

Gaston scoffed loudly, obviously not taking that with any appreciation.

As interruptions went though it was a subtle one. LeFou felt more encouraged as he went on.

“I know he has his reputation but I think the curse did the trick and he really has learned his lesson. From what I’ve seen so far, I think that he’s changed. He’s trying to be a better, more compassionate ruler. And if you turn yourself in to him he might be more inclined to show mercy-”

“Mercy? Compassion?” Gaston repeated, curt. “What kind of virtue can you expect to see from a man who was transformed by magic into a Beast?”

LeFou stared at him balefully.

“ _You_ don’t have room to cast a single stone regarding that, now.”

Gaston looked offended LeFou had the audacity to state the obvious. But he bit his tongue and fell silent.

LeFou drew a steadying breath, again, and went on.

“We have a month. We’ll use it to learn as much as we can about your changes. You have to admit, in this case, forewarned is better forearmed.”

“What’s the point?” Gaston muttered. “When the odds are good you’re handing me over to be executed? He’s a prince, LeFou – you know what the noble blood is like! They aren’t exactly known to be reasonable.”

“Well, Belle likes him. So he can’t be entirely crazy.”

“Oh, well, _Belle_.” The amount of disgust he packed into one name was breathtaking – at least that answered any question on whether he’d gotten over her. “Who are we not to trust the judgment of a deranged and clearly tasteless girl-”

“You know,” LeFou interrupted, coolly, “I should probably tell you that she’s my friend, now. So maybe be a little careful with whatever you’re going to say.”

Gaston went agog at that.

“ _Belle?_ Is _your_ friend? When did that happen?”

“Who’d have thought, right,” LeFou murmured sardonically, not looking at Gaston as he said it.

He’d a nagging worry he was getting ahead of himself, to assume that offer of friendship was still open – after all, Belle was a princess now. She had options. She didn’t have to throw pity on a small-town peasant who’d been directly involved in actions against her family.

As soon as Belle heard Gaston was still alive and LeFou had been hiding him…it was hard not to think that would be the end of it.

And that hurt. More than LeFou would’ve expected. He found he _liked_ Belle, little an amount of time as they’d spent together. She was wryly observational and smart as a whip.

“That’s not the point, though,” LeFou said, trying to stick to the subject. He went over to where Gaston’s plate had fallen and knelt; using a napkin he started dabbing at the spill. “I don’t expect you to be exactly pleased about the deal I made. But can’t you at least see this as a pretty good alternative?”

“I would much prefer an alternative that didn’t involve my being arrested.”

LeFou glanced up to see Gaston had arms folded and another scowl on his face.

Carefully he stood, idly holding the largest piece left of the broken plate in one hand, avoiding the jagged edges as he toyed with it.

“Did you not expect a resolution to involve some sort of punishment? Do you…do you really still not understand what you’ve done?” LeFou said, not even sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Sick with the thought he already knew.

“It isn’t only that so many are still angry with you. You hurt a lot of people, Gaston. You broke the law.”

“What law? There are laws, now, to protect talking knickknacks and ravening monsters?”

For all his response was fiery and self-possessed, underneath his bluster LeFou caught a serious note of uncertainty. It wasn’t that he didn’t know: it was that he didn’t _want_ to know. Like always when presented with information unwelcome or inconvenient, Gaston found a way to parcel it off.

There was a time when LeFou found that single-minded confidence admirable. He had tried to imitate Gaston, as much as he adored him.

But LeFou couldn’t shut the rest of the world out without feeling the consequences. He didn’t have the stomach for it, it turned out. He couldn’t be so cruel – even on accident.

“You tried to kill a man,” LeFou said. “Two men, counting Maurice. You incited a mob against the village’s ruler.”

“I told you, I didn’t know he was a prince! Neither did you, or anyone else for that matter.”

“Yes. But he _is_ a prince, now. And if you tried to explain what happened to any outsider, no one would believe you.”

Gaston looked apprehensive at that, and he swallowed.

LeFou forced a tired smile. “So maybe stop complaining so hard, and give the man a break for offering you a fairer shot than he could.”

Gaston didn’t speak at first. His mouth had tightened into a hard line, arms still crossed against his body, eyes bright with temper as he breathed through his nose.

LeFou could tell: he knew that he was right. He didn’t like it, one bit. But he _knew_.

He should’ve been able to predict what came next. Whenever Gaston was backed into a corner, out of options that he liked, he always lashed out spitefully.

“I still can’t believe it,” he said, at last. “After the years at my side…but it seems you prefer the company of others, now. Don’t you, LeFou?”

He sneered, effecting a stance of wounded superiority. His tone as he went on, both careless and cutting, was snide.

“Belle. The Prince. How long did it take, after you all thought I was gone, to hurry and find someone new to attach yourself to? And now…” He shook his head. “You sold me out. Some _friend_ you are.”

LeFou stared at him blankly, stunned into silence.

The accusation hurt, as Gaston no doubt knew it would. For someone so oblivious, when push came to shove he sure did know how to twist the knife.

But of course, Gaston was a hunter – he always knew how to find a weak spot.

As LeFou stood there he thought about times in the past when Gaston pulled something like this. Usually not on him: he didn’t speak out enough to warrant it.

Thing was, Gaston’s moods could be short as they were volatile. Within a day or so, sometimes even less, sometimes _hours_ , he’d be trying to laugh and joke with the person he’d gone after. Having already forgotten whatever disagreement they’d had, assuming them to have done the same.

He didn’t understand how much he could hurt with his words and actions. He didn’t care enough to even think about it.

Abruptly LeFou hurled the broken plate he’d been holding back down at his feet. It smashed into smaller fragments, loudly.

Gaston’s snide look vanished. He hadn’t expected that.

“I _stuck my neck_ _out_ for you,” LeFou declared. “I went to see the Prince, for you. I didn’t have to get involved. But I did. Because I still care,” he swallowed a bitter laugh, “even though almost _no one_ would blame me if I didn’t.”

He took in the bafflement on Gaston’s face.

“You really don’t…get it, do you?”

He hadn’t wanted to spell it out. Remind Gaston the things he’d done to him those last few days.

He hated to remember it. He hated he even had to _tell_ Gaston, that he couldn’t figure it out on his own. That no matter how many times LeFou said he was still upset, smarting from how he’d been treated, he couldn’t seem to hold onto that knowledge in a way that made any impression.

But it all came bubbling up as LeFou glared darkly, head lowered halfway.

“I was there when you left Maurice in the woods. I didn’t want to, remember? I tried talking you out of it. But I let you get me to go along, just like you always do. Maurice could’ve died – and we just left him there. _I_ did that.” He put a hand to his chest. “I have to live with that, for the rest of my life.”

Clenching teeth, he briefly looked to the ceiling, because he wasn’t going to lose control now. Not until he said what he had to.

“And then when Maurice showed up again, you got me to lie for you. And I did. Even though I knew it was wrong. I was faced with a choice between doing the right thing, and supporting you – and I chose you. And what did it get me, huh? For all that loyalty, what was my reward?”

He stepped closer as he talked, closing the distance between them.

“When you locked Belle and her father in that wagon, when you got the mob going, I tried reasoning with you. Because I thought it wasn’t a good idea. You were acting out of control. But what did you do, to that? You threatened to lock me away too.”

LeFou was outwardly composed – barely. Every word came heated and terse. Feelings trying to break free. He could feel the intensity of them gathering in the muscles of his face, showing in his eyes.

“And then, finally, when we got to the castle and the fight started? You used me as a shield. First you pushed me in front of you, then you left me to fend off an attack alone.”

When he got near Gaston leaned away from him, watching with palpable unease.

“I asked you for help, Gaston. We didn’t know they were enchanted people then, remember? I had just been pinned under a _sentient harpsichord_ – for all I knew I was going to die. I was terrified.” LeFou swallowed, disliking that even now it broke his heart to remember. “So I reached out to you. You were looking right at me. But you didn’t help me, did you?”

He paused to take in Gaston’s expression. He was staring back at him, speechless.

He didn’t look angry any more. Now he just looked…uncomfortable.

LeFou wondered what caused that dismay: the realization of what he’d done, or if it was more over how it’d led to his formerly compliant friend coming at him in such a manner.

“You were in too much of a hurry. You had to climb the tower, save the damsel, be a hero. So you didn’t stop. You couldn’t be bothered.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. He stepped backward, away again.

“ _‘Sorry, old friend’_ ,” he repeated with disgust. “Those were the last words I thought you ever said to me. For two months I thought the last I ever saw of you, was your back, walking away. Do you have any idea what it did to me? That _that_ of all things, was the note we got to go out on? After everything? After the way you treated me at the end?”

He spread his arms.

“Does it begin to occur to you, at all, why _some people_ might not want to have anything to do with you?”

“LeFou,” Gaston stammered. “I…”

He trailed off helplessly, acting shaken to his core.

It wasn’t enough. Maybe it would never be enough, because LeFou had seen him shrug off recriminations one too many times. There were some lessons he suspected Gaston was incapable of learning.

Maybe remorse was one of them.

“So here I am, helping you again,” LeFou concluded bitterly. “For old times’ sake. You get one month. One month of me taking care of you, keeping you safe, so long as you can be on your best behavior. Then the Prince’s men will come, and well…that’s it. You’re out of my life for good.”

Gaston would be off to prison, or exile, or even a worse possibility LeFou didn’t want to consider. But he told himself it wasn’t his problem any more.

And if he was still scared and worried on Gaston’s behalf, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t enough. He wasn’t shouldering any more burdens. He was worn out.

He had gone above and beyond the call of friendship, even one close as theirs had been. He didn’t owe Gaston anything else.

“After that you’re on your own. Finally, you’ll have what you always wanted.” In his anger LeFou couldn’t stop from giving one more shot: “You, and only you, will be in complete control of your life. Master of your own fate.”

He could tell that Gaston badly wanted to say _something_ as he gazed at him with stunned disbelief, mouth slightly open. But he couldn’t seem to come up with anything.

LeFou looked away again, feeling far more drained than he did satisfied.

How many times was he going to repeat this pattern? Hurling emotional words, what he’d had months of echoing inside his head, then storming off frustrated when he ran out of things to say.

It wasn’t his nature to be this angry, this resentful. Another reason, he supposed, to hold a grudge against Gaston. His actions had done this; planted this biting misery inside him, turning him for brief periods of time into a person he hardly recognized. That he didn’t want to be.

He glanced at the table, the dinner he’d prepared. Roast potatoes, beef casserole, salad greens, freshly sliced fruit.

LeFou swallowed a dry sour taste.

“You can finish this alone,” he told Gaston. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

Head down, his back to the other man, he walked out.

He kept walking until he was outside. Standing on the back porch he rested hands on the railing, looking to the sky as he tried to catch his breath.

“LeFou…”

He jerked in surprise as he heard Gaston’s voice, realizing he’d come after him.

“LeFou, wait!”

Gaston approached and stood to his side. Hands cupped in front of him, he carried something awkwardly: it took LeFou several moments to realize it was the broken plate from the floor. Gaston swept up the whole mess, it appeared, with a dishtowel and was carrying it in an odd bundle.

“I’m not hungry now, either,” he said gruffly, avoiding LeFou’s eyes. “Help me put everything away.”

Shoulders falling, LeFou looked at him in silent exasperation.

At least he seemed suitably chastened after this latest confrontation. Perhaps it’d finally gotten through to him, how much things had changed.

“Sure.” LeFou gave in. “Fine.”

They didn’t speak as they returned to the table, gathering up dishes and scraping off plates.

There wasn’t much that’d keep overnight – it seemed a crime to waste so much food. Particularly since Gaston had appeared, LeFou’s need for groceries had skyrocketed. The man ate enough normally, and LeFou didn’t think it his imagination that Gaston’s appetite now seemed even more, well, _wolfish_.

But only so much could be done. He picked up the salad, intending to take it out back. At least the goat would enjoy it.

As he walked by Gaston suddenly snaked out an arm, catching him firmly above the elbow.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

LeFou went still. He blinked a few times, before gradually turning enough to watch Gaston from the corner of his eye.

“What exactly are you sorry _for?_ ”

Gaston frowned, as if he thought LeFou was playing a trick on him. “You know…things.” He gave a half-shrug.

For half a second LeFou about considered throwing the salad bowl at his head.

Gaston didn’t want him to be mad any longer, and he knew an apology was the right track. But he didn’t know how to give one. He didn’t know what he needed to redress.

He just wanted LeFou to stop giving him grief – he wasn’t actually sorry at all.

LeFou hung his head and sighed, heavily.

“Forget it.” He shut his eyes. “Things aren’t all right. But I just don’t want to talk about this now. I’m tired.”

“All right,” Gaston agreed, still frowning in displeased confusion.

And that was that. After the table was cleared, the dishes cleaned up, everything that could be put away, they both retreated to separate corners of the house. They didn’t say one word to each other for the rest of the evening.

Gaston still took the bed. LeFou went to sleep on the sofa.

_One month_ , he thought to himself as he lay down; one month he’d promised to keep living like this, boxed in with Gaston and everything that’d come between them.

At this rate he didn’t know how he was possibly going to make it.

*

To say that things were tense the next day would be a terrible understatement.

LeFou didn’t just not talk to Gaston, not look at him – he completely avoided him.

Gaston awoke early, in time to hear the sounds of LeFou shuffling around, getting ready for the day. By the point he worked up the nerve to try saying _“good morning”,_ it was too late.

LeFou was out of the house, slamming the door behind him without looking back. He didn’t even say goodbye.

Though he was typically an early riser, Gaston sunk back into bed. He spent the next half an hour laying there, sprawled on his back, staring at the ceiling.

He hated to waste daylight when he could be doing things, living life – travelling somewhere, hunting, riding, walking around the village talking to people, down at the tavern sharing stories and songs…

He could do none of these things, though. He’d nowhere to go, no one to see, nothing. His options, his freedom, had all been taken away from him.

Here he’d thought when he escaped the woods, he’d be getting his comfortable existence back. Instead, he discovered, he’d been good as locked up in a cage.

Gaston shut his eyes, flopping over to bury his face in a pillow. With an exasperated groan, he folded arms over his head.

This wasn’t anything like what he wanted or anticipated. After what he’d suffered already…it wasn’t fair. He wanted his _life_ back. But he’d lost his privileges, his reputation, his followers. He didn’t even appear to have the one thing he’d always counted on: his friendship with LeFou.

He opened his eyes, drawing a sharp breath through his nose, trying to combat the sudden stab of despair from within his chest.

He figured by rights he should be absolutely furious with LeFou. He’d betrayed Gaston, after all, hadn’t he? He’d been too much a coward to help come up with a better plan than turning himself in and _hoping_ for a good outcome.

Weeks and months apart, and all he had to offer Gaston on his return was to shout at him. It was selfish, certainly, Gaston felt. It was unwarranted and unkind.

But every time outrage started to bloom he remembered the expression on LeFou’s face, the tenor of his voice, the things he’d said…and the fire died away, replaced by uncertainty and discontent.

LeFou was the most easygoing, jovial person he knew. His nature was bright and dependable as the sun that rose each morning.

He hadn’t recognized the blackness that appeared as LeFou spat words of reproach at him, the bitterness, the anger. He’d never seen LeFou like this, never imagined he _could_ be, and it shocked him utterly.

Had he really done that, to LeFou? Was that… _his_ fault?

Gaston rolled over again, head thudding against the bedframe as he stared dejectedly off into space.

Eventually he decided there was no point in moping in bed the whole day, though.

LeFou had been so thorough as to leave a basin of water, soap, a clean towel, everything he needed to wash. He hadn’t put out any breakfast though – Gaston supposed that meant he was to fend for himself.

A short time later he was wandering around, having shaved and styled his hair, munching on a baguette he’d found; undressed from the waist up as he looked for a clean shirt.

The layout of LeFou’s cottage was odd. It was quite spacious for one bachelor living alone, too crowded for a family any bigger than three or four. The house began as a place to be rented out back in the days when famers lived closer to Villeneuve. As rooms were added on no one bothered redesigning the interior, leaving it feeling cluttered and small.

The furniture had probably been expensive in its day. But multiple generations passing it down left much of it chipped and broken, faded in ways no amount of dusting or polish could fix.

Gaston had asked LeFou, once before, why he didn’t get rid of it and buy new pieces. LeFou had only shrugged, saying there was no point.

Gaston supposed he was right. LeFou lived alone, seemed to have no plans to change that, and Gaston was his only visitor. He’d let the notion slide and forgotten it.

Little about LeFou’s home had changed over the years, really. The decorations had mostly belonged to his aunt. He’d kept a lot of the same drawers and tables even though he didn’t need as many. He’d merely moved them around so they weren’t in his way.

In a smaller side room – what could’ve been a guest room if it’d had an actual bed – was the extra bureau and storage chest where LeFou kept Gaston’s things. The past few days he’d barely had to rifle around since the spare clothing he’d needed was on top.

Gaston brushed aside three vests that he barely recalled having made, nose wrinkling as he discovered LeFou was still hanging onto the only shirt he owned without any adornment. Good lord, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d worn _that_. It must’ve been at least a year.

He pulled out one drawer after the other. There had to be something else.

In the very bottom drawer, he was astonished to see a familiar flash of scarlet trimmed with gold: the long coat of his military uniform. It’d been carefully folded away, wrapped in linen. Gaston pulled it out to stare at it.

He distinctly _knew_ he’d left the coat at the tavern. It was always there – he never knew when the chance might come to reenact one of his old battles in front of an audience.

The mystery only increased when he opened the chest and the first thing he saw, right on top, were his sword and musket.

About an hour later when LeFou finally returned, Gaston was fully dressed and waiting for him, seated backwards in a wooden chair with forearms resting against the top.

The shorter man walked in, glanced over, his face barely changing to register that Gaston was there before he continued with his intended path.

“LeFou…” Clearing his throat Gaston got up and followed him. “I need to ask you about something.”

LeFou stopped in his tracks with a sigh, arms hanging. “Yes, Gaston?”

Miffed by that response, he repressed a scowl before he kept going.

“Why do you have my things that I left at the tavern?” He folded his arms as the other turned to face him. “What are they doing here?”

“Well, where else would they be? After you… _died_ ,” LeFou waved his hands, vaguely, “they went in and cleaned out the room you’d taken last. Peg probably would’ve thrown away everything if I hadn’t claimed it.”

“You’re telling me that reminders of myself aren’t even welcome at the _tavern_ anymore?” Gaston asked with an incredulous smile. “That Tancred and his wife have turned against me as well?”

“They have as much reason as anyone, don’t they?”

“Oh, really? Why, when I think of all the business I’ve brought them over the years-”

“You mean between running up quite the bar tab?” LeFou deadpanned. Gaston fell silent with a sheepish look. “You know, I was aware you’d become highly reliant on me covering, but I never realized at some point you’d basically stopped carrying money completely.”

“It’s their own fault for letting me drink on credit,” Gaston muttered.

He was ashamed to realize he must’ve run that much of a debt. Since the tavern was his home away from home, he’d thought of it as a bill that was never going to come due.

LeFou raised his eyebrows. “Anyway. They kept a few things to cover what you owed – nothing you’ll miss, I promise. I went through and accounted for everything sentimental.”

“That’s good, I suppose. Though why they had to take anything of mine-”

“People expect to be paid, Gaston. They expect to be paid for their work and what they’re selling. Not everyone is willing to do you favors and give you freebies in exchange for a wink and a half-hearted compliment.”

He was smiling, but there was something humorless about how he said it. Bordering on nasty even.

Gaston tried to keep his composure in the face again of this bitter, unhappier LeFou. “So everything I had at the tavern, it ended up back here at your house?”

“If it was worth keeping, then yeah.”

“What about anything at _my_ house?”

“It’s…probably still there.” Now it was LeFou’s turn to frown and look mildly uncomfortable. “No one’s been to your place since that night. I only went there once myself to check the door was locked. Nobody’s touched anything.”

“Good,” Gaston said, shortly. It was disturbing to think everyone had stayed away like the place was haunted, so eager to cover up any trace of him and forget. But he focused on what was practical. “I’ll need to pay it a visit. If I’m going to be here for a month I’ll need more of my things.”

LeFou nodded slowly in agreement. “I can take care of that. Tomorrow, probably. And, oh, if you’re wondering what happened to your horse-”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Gaston swiftly cut him off, brusque.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he thought about that beautiful black charger he’d broken in himself. It about killed him with resentment to think of Valiant belonging to anybody else.

But of course, with Gaston presumed dead there was no reason to have his horse around, waiting, and LeFou wouldn’t keep a second mount he wouldn’t be able to ride. He couldn’t afford it.

“Just tell me you sold him to somebody who will appreciate him,” he demanded. “Tell me he’s in good hands.”

“He is,” LeFou replied instantly, seeming vaguely surprised. “But, Gaston, that reminds me of something else…have you seen Maisie?”

“ _Maisie?_ ” he repeated, forehead wrinkling. “Who the devil is Maisie?”

“The goat. I think she might’ve made a hole in the back fence and run away again.”

“Oh.” He snorted. “Well, why should I have anything to do with that? No, I haven’t seen your goat. Not today, and not yesterday either. Honestly I’m not sure when I saw her last.”

He went to sit down, putting boots on the nearest table, picking up a discarded tool that LeFou had left around and playing with it in his hands.

“I haven’t exactly been paying attention.”

LeFou had hands on his hips, knuckles curled. He eyed Gaston for a long moment, apparently unconvinced whether he should believe him.

“You’re sure?” he asked, hesitant.

“Yes. Of course. Why do you keep asking me like that?”

LeFou narrowed his eyes and bit his lip. “You didn’t…eat her?”

Gaston dropped what he was holding, lifting his head to stare up at him.

“Is that a _joke?_ ” he demanded.

“No, I’m completely serious. I mean since I can’t find her anywhere, and I’ve left you alone-”

He couldn’t believe it. Back on his feet he stomped towards LeFou, hands turned to fists he kept closely at his sides.

“What do you take me for?” He was mortified as he was incensed by the question. The fact that LeFou genuinely seemed to think it possible. “I am not literally an animal!”

“I’ve seen you eat raw meat, Gaston. Or at least try.”

“That was different! Those rabbits were dead! You’re accusing me of attacking someone’s livestock and, what, tearing it up with my teeth and bare hands? I wouldn’t _do that_ ,” he all but roared.

“Fine, then. In that case she _did_ run away.” Not cowed by Gaston’s approach, LeFou glared back at him, speaking shortly. “The goat’s run off, and just now when I was brushing him down my horse nearly kicked me-”

“That mule of yours has always been badly behaved.”

“He’s not a mule, and like Valiant is any better? You’re the only one he’s ever let sit on him!”

“Of course, because I trained him that way. He has standards.” Gaston sniffed.

“Don’t change the subject, Gaston,” LeFou said tersely. “Camarade’s been nervous for days. All the animals are misbehaving. None of my hens have laid a single egg since you’ve been here.”

“So?”

“So…don’t you think that’s an odd coincidence? They started acting up at the same time you arrived?”

He realized what LeFou was saying. His glare intensified. “You think it has something to do with me. Is that it? You think I’m the one causing it?”

“They do say it can happen,” LeFou stated. “That animals can sense dark magic, and if some sort of creature is around them, they-”

“ _Creature?_ ” he sputtered. “I am not a – I can’t believe you’re saying this to my face.” Reaching out he grabbed LeFou by the arms, shaking him slightly as he glowered down in mounting fury, in accusation: “What do you think that I am?”

“I don’t know,” LeFou shouted back. His face was open and expressive, unsettled but honest. “And I don’t think that _you_ do, either.”

The words cut through Gaston’s rage because, unfortunately, he knew once again that LeFou was exactly right.

Face falling he released his hold and staggered away, rapidly turning to avoid LeFou’s eyes. He wrapped one arm around his middle, unconsciously hugging himself.

He couldn’t blame the moon or the woods or anything else, anything but the howling animal inside of him. The wolf that never, ever went away.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.” LeFou’s voice was much softer. “But this is exactly what I’ve been talking about. You don’t even know what’s happening to you. You need to figure that out. I get that you don’t want to know because…because knowing makes it real. But it’s dangerous otherwise. For you as much as anyone else.”

_“Knowing makes it real.”_ He flinched at that, the ugly truth it contained.

He was supposed to be human. He was a man, a hero, a soldier, a hunter. He wasn’t what the fall and the bite had tried turning him into. He wasn’t a monster.

Was he?

He could feel the wolf inside him, forever catching glimpses of the world thorough its eyes. Try as he might, he could no longer be so sure.

Head hanging, mute with dejection he turned to face LeFou again. Shoulders slumped he kept his eyes at the floor about level with LeFou’s feet.

Sensing Gaston’s discouragement, that he was waiting for him to say something, LeFou awkwardly cleared his throat.

“All right, so. We’ve settled that. But I think that’s probably enough yelling for today, don’t you?” he joked weakly. “Since clearly you _haven’t_ eaten, if you’re hungry, give me half an hour and I’ll get something started for us both.”

“Is that all you’re going to say?”

Where was the LeFou that cheered him when he was down? That reminded him who he was when he was on the verge of losing confidence? Who distracted him from his bad moods, knowing what he needed when he didn’t even know it himself?

Where was his _best friend?_ Was this what his actions had cost him – the high price he paid for whatever he’d done?

LeFou frowned gradually. Maybe he could tell what Gaston was thinking, maybe he couldn’t.

It horrified Gaston he couldn’t be sure of that anymore. He couldn’t be certain of anything.

“It’s going to be all right,” LeFou said, finally. A far cry from his usual efforts but it was better than absolutely nothing. “Somehow. It’s all going to work out.”

He met Gaston’s eyes and managed a soft, vaguely conspiratorial smile. A ghost of the looks they usually exchanged.

“Hey. You believe me, don’t you?”

Gaston inhaled, trying to stand taller. “Of course,” he replied. It wasn’t a lie because it had to be the truth. It had to.

He was Gaston, his best friend was LeFou, they were together again, everything was going to be fine. Because it had to be. His life was far from suffering, especially when he had LeFou there to help him.

“And,” LeFou continued, “tomorrow afternoon I’ll go to your cabin and get whatever it is you need. Right? So we can take care of that too.”

“I’ll go with you,” Gaston said, unthinking.

“I, uh…don’t know if that’s such a good idea.” LeFou grimaced. “We’d have to cut clear across town and if anybody sees you…well now there’s even more at stake. I promised the Prince you’d stay hidden, remember?”

“Right.” He frowned. “I’ve lived for years in Villeneuve, though. I know the village. I think I’d know how to move around without being seen.”

“Well that would certainly be a change of pace,” LeFou remarked archly, wide-eyed.

Gaston shot him a look, not appreciating the little jab, though of course he knew exactly what LeFou meant.

“I am not incapable of being subtle, you realize.” He adjusted his coat, jutting out his chin. “I can certainly sneak up on the animals I’ve hunted, and as I recall I crept upon more than one of my enemies during the war.” He grinned at the memories. “They never saw me coming.”

“Yes, but – oh, oh no. Gaston, I did not mean for you to take this as a _challenge_ ,” LeFou protested. “Just wait! Have some patience and I’ll handle everything. I don’t mind.”

“Well I do,” he retorted. “I’ve little enough to do around here, and I’ve grown weary with waiting. Why hold off until the afternoon, anyhow? Wouldn’t it make more sense to go first thing in the morning?”

“It would, except…you see, tomorrow is Sunday.” LeFou was making a bold attempt to look nonchalant. “And I’ve decided that I’m going to try joining the rest of the village at mass.”

“You – _you’re_ going to mass?” Gaston stared at him. “What? Since _when?_ ” His eyes narrowed. “Since when do you care about religion?”

“It’s not really about that, it’s about having a sense of community.” He was acting somewhat cagey, rubbing his palms together. “Anyway, recently Pere Robert did me a favor, and I think he’d appreciate it if I showed up. It’s the least I can do.”

“That’s possibly the most absurd thing that I ever heard. I can’t see you enjoying yourself, packed into the little church in this heat. Crammed in with those fishwives in their best bonnets and merchants in their tight coats, and their squalling unhappy children.”

“Well it’s my choice to go,” LeFou said, getting annoyed again. “And I choose to do just that. So there.”

“Well…fine!” Gaston decided, “And in that case, I choose to take advantage of everyone being at Sunday prayers to sneak over and get what I need from my home!”

LeFou opened his mouth and remained speechless for a moment as he took in Gaston’s triumphant expression.

“I can’t…physically stop you,” he drew out, at length. “But I can’t stress enough how much I do _not_ think this is a good idea, Gaston. If something goes wrong-”

“Nothing will go wrong! LeFou, I know what I’m doing.”

“I’ve heard that before,” his friend muttered. “I don’t mean to bring up a sore subject, but can I remind how your last few plans have turned out?”

By which he clearly meant: Gaston’s attempts to woo Belle, his actions against her father, his decision to storm the castle and try killing the Beast.

None of those had worked out as intended. All of them, in one way or another, could be said to have contributed to his current state of affairs – cast out, in trouble with the law, not to mention cursed.

He recoiled. “This is different. It’s…well, it’s a much smaller scale, for one thing.”

“That is true,” LeFou admitted.

He considered it, and breathed out.

“Please promise me that you’ll be careful. It isn’t only your neck on the line if you get caught, you know?”

He didn’t like that LeFou had phrased it that way, because it made it impossible for Gaston to tell if LeFou was actually worried for his friend’s sake or if his concern was primarily for himself.

But he liked to think that LeFou still cared, even under his anger and disillusionment. He _had_ to.

Gaston smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “I promise.”

He wouldn’t do anything to let LeFou down, now.

*

Gaston dreamed again that night. The details after weren’t easily remembered, though no less chaotic and unsettling.

The flash of cutlery marching in formation, leering wickedly despite not having any faces. The stench of mud mixed with gunpowder at Tarbes. And over everything the constant howling of wolves.

Right before he woke came the worst part. Abruptly he realized LeFou’s hand, which had been clinging to him the whole time, was missing. He spun around to look for him and saw nothing but an endless void. He heard LeFou screaming his name.

And then it was Gaston who fell, the ground giving way, leaving him tumbling into the dark.

When his eyes opened his head was sore and spinning, sweat clinging to his skin.

He threw himself into the day’s activities, determined to put the dreams out of his mind.

He heard bells ringing, loud across the distance, summoning the villagers – and LeFou, evidently – to morning mass. The church of Villeneuve was too small for its own bell-tower so the congregation was reliant on the ones hung over the village square. It was understood the priest slipped the attendants there a small fee, a few francs every month for the service.

Gaston pondered the issue with vigor, sizing up his next move as he would make any plan of attack.

He could attempt to go around the village, walking along the side of her walls, but he felt that’d take too long. If he wanted to complete his errand while everyone was busy he’d a limited window. The problem was that while _almost_ everybody would be at church, not everyone would be, and of this handful of stragglers it would only take one to spot Gaston and raise the alarm.

There was no question, of course, whether he would be recognized if seen: everyone in Villeneuve recognized _him_.

He knew the streets well, but the cobbled pathways that went around the shops and houses offered as many routes as they did opportunities to be spotted. If he was trapped in a winding narrow alley and someone came around the corner unexpectedly he’d have no place to hide.

He peered up the hill, hands resting on the open windowsill as his mind turned in thought. He glanced towards the rooftops packed so close together, creating that familiar skyline.

Then he tilted his neck back, looking directly up, remembering the other day when he’d easily climbed upon LeFou’s roof.

He grinned in inspiration.

Five minutes, a running start and a well-placed leap onto a rain barrel behind the tanner’s later, he’d grappled his way onto an eave and was tracing the paths of beams and gutters as he made his way from one building to the next.

Villeneuve was quiet in the way it could only be during a gathering. The streets were deserted, save for horses tied in front of buildings and the occasional chicken wandering the streets, clucking as it scratched for a spare bit of grain.

At the main well the water’s trickling echoed in the emptiness. The market looked like a ghost town, not a single stall set up, not even the flower vendor or the fishmongers.

And from his high vantage, the village spread out around Gaston in every direction.

It was a delicate balancing act at first. Most roofs weren’t designed to have someone walking across them. He stepped sideways a lot, knees bent as he navigated inclines and uneven patches. Crossing between was tricky as well, particularly if he had to make a landing at just the right spot.

Before long though he’d gotten the hang of it. He was more than halfway across Villeneuve in no time, he hadn’t seen a soul – besides they’d have to look straight up to notice him, and he could see anyone coming from blocks away.

But he didn’t anticipate any trouble. This was the sort of athletic, focused task at which he excelled.

Actually, he decided - this was rather fun. Why hadn’t it occurred to him to try it years ago? A bit irregular, but it’s not like there was reason for anyone to _mind_ his taking a shortcut atop their house…

His boot slid the wrong way across tiled clay and when he dug his heel in he disturbed about three shingles. He watched as they fell to the ground, shattering – glancing at the newly-bared spot he grimaced and shrugged before resuming his train of thought.

To think every time he’d been blocked by a crowd, instead of waiting he could’ve just ducked inside a building, climbed out somebody’s window and been on his way!

He couldn’t wait to show LeFou. Maybe he could talk him into joining him and trying it out.

Most would’ve taken one look at LeFou and assumed he wasn’t built for climbing around on rooftops, but Gaston had more faith. LeFou was stronger, more agile than he appeared. Not to mention he’d the stamina to keep up with his burlier, taller friend; no mean feat.

Unfortunately, his thoughts drifting to LeFou soon brought up what he’d tried to keep far from his mind: the tense, unhappy state of things between them.

It still shook him, the way LeFou had acted. That realization, the true extent how bad things were.

Days before, the first time LeFou expressed he was angry, it hadn’t hit him _how_ much.

Now – well much as it pained him, LeFou did have some reason for it. Gaston wasn’t prone to thinking of any action of his as a “mistake”, but hearing it laid out like that caused him to internally cringe.

Personally, he still thought there was an explanation for everything he’d done. Yes, perhaps he’d gotten carried away where Maurice was concerned, but so what? He’d been forgiven before, after causing damage in mistaken bouts of exuberance. He didn’t see why this should be any different.

But what he’d done to his friend had left the other mistrustful and seething. Too late he realized he’d crossed a line.

He was always pushing LeFou; cajoling him to ride just a little further, stay out one more night, visit one more tavern, drink one more round, pay up for one more song. Gaston would do whatever it took to get people to agree with him, to see things his way. He could be convincing in all manners, persuasive or forceful. It didn’t matter so long as he got what he wanted. But he’d pushed too hard, this time.

He could see that now. LeFou was acting like he’d done what should be unthinkable: like Gaston had pushed him away.

To even consider it was frightening.

They’d been companions most of their lives. LeFou was always loyal, attentive, devoted. He idolized Gaston – and yes, Gaston had known the full truth of that for years.

It’d come to him, like most things he wasn’t sure what to make of, in bits and pieces. Useful at some points, unsettling at others.

When they were younger he’d tried encouraging his friend to be different. Certainly he’d be happier if he just tried a little harder, if he didn’t have to be _that way?_ It would be perfect if they both could settle down, have families, raise their children to play together. It was the expected way and surely LeFou knew that. Gaston was only trying to help.

Somewhere along the way though he’d surrendered. LeFou would do whatever he wanted, it mostly made no difference – and Gaston could hardly fault his taste.

Still it was an odd piece to fit into his straightforward worldview. As was typical, he tended to drop such pieces from time to time. Forgetting what he considered inconvenient, insignificant. Until it came up and he learned again all over.

For months sometimes, he’d assume LeFou was no different from himself. Then Gaston would ask why he hadn’t found a sweetheart of his own, and as LeFou made a joke about being too busy or too short or too _something_ , in a flat tone like he really meant something else…abruptly Gaston would be reminded.

But it’d never occurred to him that not talking about it was making LeFou unhappy. Wasn’t that kind of information left better in the dark anyway, to keep everyone safer, more comfortable?

Evidently he’d been wrong. Maybe even about more than one thing, which was a deeply unpleasant discovery.

Equally unpleasant was the thought now he didn’t know what to do about it.

He wished LeFou could’ve simply accepted his apology so they’d move on. He truly _was_ sorry, even if he couldn’t spell out precisely what went wrong. It irked him LeFou hadn’t seemed to believe him.

He was going to have to sit and _wait_ , the thing he detested doing most. Until then it’d be hanging over his head.

Every time he replayed the events of those days in his mind, he only grew more uneasy and miserable. The more he looked back the worse it appeared, and the less certain he felt about his choices.

Shaking it off, he grunted, with a frown.

This was exactly why he hated extended bouts of thinking – things were much better when it remained all impulse and action. It was far more natural for him.

The one good thing about this _thinking_ , though, it passed the time. Gaston had reached the far side of the village; hopping down he wandered away from the last line of shops, taking the path leading to his home.

When he spoke of the future, the hunting lodge he’d someday like to build for the large family he’d no doubt father, what Gaston had been picturing was mostly a version of what he already had. Only bigger, of course. Much bigger.

What he had now was no more than a cottage, a place suited to eat and sleep and store belongings in but with room for little else. At the end of a dirt path, a short walk away from the rest of the village, at the very edge of the forest nestled among the shade of trees. The little house a woodcutter once built for himself and his wife.

It was usually the first thing anyone remarked when they saw it – gazing from a distance, giving a surprised “Oh, it’s so _small_ ”.

But it really wasn’t that surprising. Gaston’s parents had been, if not small, certainly average - which left them looking small by comparison, dwarfed by the son they’d somehow managed to birth.

Madame Bûcher had been over forty when she’d finally had what she and her husband always wanted, long after both had given up hope. Strong and hearty with a piercing wail, his mother’s black hair and his father’s sharp eyes. She called him her miracle child, her _bénédiction de Dieu_.

She’d been a deeply religious woman. Her family never missed Sunday mass while she was alive.

But she’d been gone a long time. Though Gaston felt a twinge of that wistful nostalgia befitting a homecoming, as his boots traced the path to the door, what he mostly felt was…nothing.

The house was his and he felt a sense of possessive ownership, relief that it was still there. But inside it was spartan, almost sterile; long deprived of the warmth and tidiness, he believed, that came from a woman’s touch.

He glanced around, taking in everything. Exactly how he left it. The bed was unmade, and though it was far from a disaster objects were dispersed here and there, placed down carelessly.

There were cobwebs in the corners. The back window badly needed a wash. It’d probably been like that _before_ he went away, and lengthy abandonment only made it worse.

Dropping the bag he’d carried with him, he went to work, rifling through drawers and cupboards, searching across the floor. Gathering up everything he thought he might need or want.

He moved quickly without any real sense of being in a hurry. It wasn’t like there were many places to search.

When his parents died he’d been a youth of fourteen. Too old to be thought a child by most anymore, but lacking those last few years of grooming that would’ve prepared him for adulthood. Still, he’d figured then, there was no reason not to think himself a man. So he acted as one, making decisions and attempting to live independently.

True the many mothers of the village had taken pity, offering him meals almost daily at their tables, taking care of his laundry and mending so he wouldn’t have to pay a washerwoman himself. But Gaston had kept his own house, he’d picked up his late father’s axe and musket and gone to work. He cut wood to pay the bills and hunted to keep himself fed, selling the extra for more coin.

He’d never given up his boasting, striding around town with confidence, doing what he could to keep the village’s attention. Not that he had to try very hard. They’d marveled over such a strong and handsome boy, now they admired him for being a young man determined to carry on by himself.

Gaston had not grieved his parents long. He’d loved them, but they were gone, and what was the point of dwelling when it’d make no difference? He’d put longing memories of Mama and Papa aside with what little remained of his childhood. It had been years, now, since he really thought of them at all.

He sold off their things within a year. Their clothes, personal effects, the bed they shared. No one in Villeneuve had whispered this made him coldhearted – after all, they reasoned, he must need the money terribly. Truth was he saw no point in hanging onto what he couldn’t use. Some of Papa’s belongings he could repurpose, but he’d no need for Mama’s.

She’d been buried in her best dress, her favorite shawl, the shoes she’d worn on her wedding day, with her rosary tucked between her hands.

The funerals were together since they died at the same time. The village priest back then had been Pere Sebastian and he had terrible hay fever; he’d spent the graveside service honking and muttering into a handkerchief. He’d called Papa by his first name, Gaspard, but only referred to Mama as _“Madame Bûcher”_ or _“his wife”._ Possibly he couldn’t recall her Christian name.

But then how long had it been since anyone called her Athalie – even Papa usually said _“wife”_ or _“dear”_ when he spoke to her.

Mama wouldn’t have minded. Honestly that was probably how she preferred to be thought. Her whole life was her family, and she only went into town for church, sending her son to do the shopping. She’d always been painfully shy.

Papa had been quiet, too – sturdy, well-liked, but quiet. He would stop at the tavern for a pint after a long day’s work, bits of conversation with the other men. Then without fail he’d go home to where his wife would have supper waiting and rub his aching shoulders. They were good people, but they never stood out for much.

Everyone came to their funeral, because in Villeneuve everyone almost always did. But the week before the conversation around invariably went like this:

_“Who died?”_

_“The Bûchers, the woodsman and his wife.”_

_“Who?”_

_“Oh, you know – Gaston’s parents.”_

_“Ah, yes! What a pity. The poor lad.”_

_“Yes. Such a shame.”_

Hardly anything remained of them in the house where they’d grown old. There was some of the furniture Papa carved, the curtains and tablecloth Mama had sewed. Very little else.

Mama had measured her growing boy regularly against the frame of the front door, marking off each jump in height with pride and loving excitement. But those marks had been covered over.

Gaston repainted when he returned from the army, feeling a rush then to make the old homestead seem at least _something_ more fit for a war hero.

Even then he’d known what his eventual plan was. One day he’d save up, buy more land around him, knock down the walls and expand. Turn the cottage into a grand dwelling worthy of him, one he’d build with his own hands where he’d be proud to carry his new wife over the threshold.

Though not usually prone to pessimism, Gaston couldn’t help but think – it didn’t seem likely any of that was going to happen, now.

With his bag fully packed he stood out on the front step and looked around, taking everything in with that odd feeling of familiarity towards something one hadn’t seen in a while.

He turned back and glanced at the trees, the press of the woods so close. This was the direction one would head to eventually get to the castle, and technically it was part of the same dark forest that stood between there and Villeneuve.

The wind carried the scent of trees and earth to Gaston’s nose. Where once it invigorated the huntsman within him, instead it made the wolf perk up with longing.

It wanted to change and take him back out there. Into the wilderness where it knew the pack was waiting. He shuddered.

He had to keep it under control. He had to remember who, and what, he truly was.

Shouldering the heavy weight, firmly, he spun on his heel and marched back towards Villeneuve, to climb onto the roofs again.

Even burdened as he was on his return he felt he made far better pace. He knew the way, now, and didn’t have to pause constantly to figure out what he was doing.

In fact, glancing to the big clock over the square he found he’d timed it perfectly. He’d be back minutes before mass ended.

Almost soon as he had the thought, Gaston became cocky.

If he hid a few blocks away, there might be chance for him to jump down and surprise LeFou as he walked alone. Now wouldn’t that provide them with some much-needed levity?

He pictured the look on his friend’s face, already laughing silently to himself.

He didn’t stop to weigh the matter any further. Picking his spot Gaston faced the direction of the church, crouching like a gargoyle, large sack balanced atop his shoulder like some strange twist on Pere Noel.

Before long he heard doors being opened, the hum of voices as people poured into the street. Gaston held his breath, waiting.

A good prank didn’t have the same sense of anticipation to him as a battle or a hunt; soon he began to feel restless, annoyed by the cramping in his legs. Hopefully LeFou would be at the front of the group. Thrilled to escape from the reminder after these years of how boring a church service could be.

It wasn’t LeFou’s voice he heard, though, but another familiar one first.

“-told you, I’m _going_ to take care of it.”

“That’s what you said the last time. And the time before that.”

“Why does it always have to be this way with you? Can’t I have a single day’s peace? Is that too much to ask?”

Abandoning his perch, Gaston stepped carefully, crossing one building over. Stretched flat on his stomach he peered over an alley.

Even seeing his back at first, he recognized the assistant to the village bailiff walking with his family. One of his most loyal hangers-on. He smirked as he recalled the good times he’d had at the tavern with this man among his audience.

“You’re a useless lump of a man,” his wife groused at him. “With brains like a sack of manure, and less spine than my old kitchen broom.”

She didn’t miss a beat as she walked, spouse trailing close by her elbow. Their seven children circled about them, playing and chattering, ignoring their parents’ argument. It was hardly irregular behavior.

“How I ended up burdened with such a husband, I never can tell.”

“Well I ask myself every day what I did to wind up with such a miserable buck-toothed creature for a wife,” Dick retorted. He waved his hands, giving her the brushoff. “I’m going to the tavern!”

“Ha! There’s a surprise.” She was scornful. “You could at least wait a few hours, you know, on the Sabbath. Pretend to have something like common decency.”

“As if anyone could blame me, married to you? You’d drive any man to it.”

He stalked off in lieu of a goodbye. His wife kept heading home, unconcerned, the children staying with her.

Gaston crawled in the direction Dick had gone, suddenly needy for a glimpse of another even vaguely friendly face after having spoken to no one this past week but LeFou.

Down in the street, the man didn’t walk for long before another came around the corner. They stopped to face each other with grins, clasping hands in greeting.

“Ah, there you are. Where’s Mildred?” Tom asked.

“Off to jump in the river, if I’m lucky. Were you looking for me? I’m heading to find a drink.”

“Well, what else? Lead the way.”

Standing companionly close they set off together. Dick sighed, apropos of nothing.

“It’s a good day for the pub.”

“It’s always a good day for the pub.” Tom turned musing. “Though it’s not quite what it used to be.”

“Hear, hear. It’s just too quiet now. I mean, that doesn’t affect the drinking part, but the entertainment…”

Dick stopped abruptly, and he drew an emotional breath. It was hard to tell but it seemed he might be fighting back tears for a moment, which looked comical on a man normally as gruff as he.

With similar expression, jaw clenched manfully, Tom patted him hard on the shoulder. “I know. I miss him too.”

Gaston perked up immediately. Could it be-?

Dick’s voice was wavering. “It’s such a shame. Such a…bold, strong, cunning example of a man, and in the prime of his life-”

“Yeah,” Tom sighed heavily. “What a waste.” They started walking again, leaning together, not seeming entirely aware where they were going. The rounded the corner and reached the main thoroughfare where a few others wandered after having left the church. “Remember that time he tried shooting apples off our heads with his rifle?”

“I know! And he only barely singed the top of Stanley’s hair! He was such a good shot.”

“There was no one better. Poor Gaston. You and I can drink a round to him, inside. Our fallen hero.”

Gaston was beaming as he eavesdropped. Now this, this was far more like it. _This_ was how he liked to be remembered. What he’d expected, what he deserved.

He wasn’t surprised Tom and Dick thought of him well – but then, he wouldn’t be surprised of it for anyone.

Clearly, he thought at once, LeFou had been exaggerating in his anxiety. Of course the villagers still missed and loved him! At least, the ones that had any sense.

He started to stand.

Maybe he didn’t have to follow LeFou’s absurd plan after all. If he revealed himself and they were elated to see him – they could help him stand up to the Prince. There’d be no need to surrender himself to arrest if he had all of Villeneuve on his side.

Gaston set the bag down on the roof and glanced himself over, smoothing his jacket and straightening his shirt. He pictured the looks of joy on the people’s faces when they saw he was alive after all.

He drew a breath, throwing head back and puffing his chest out as he prepared to make a grand entrance.

Down below, on the street, Dick was repeating, “Poor Gaston. There’ll never be another like him.”

A voice interjected across the reminiscing men, cold, “And thank God for that.”

Gaston stilled, startled. Rather than jumping now he slowly looked down to see what happened.

One of the fishwives was strutting over, grasping the skirts of her Sunday best so they didn’t trail in the dirt.

Instead of her usual apron and tall cap she was bedecked in ribbons and pastels, florid face half-hidden beneath a wide lacy bonnet. It didn’t make her look any less gaunt and imposing.

“As if the world could need another Gaston. Most here, decent folk, can barely stand to hear his name. How dare you two lay-a-bouts go on, standing there talking about him like he was some kind of saint,” she hissed, not trying to hide her voice. Denouncing social ills was her favorite pastime and she seemed in rare form over this. “Holding court in the middle of a public street, eulogizing a murderer!”

Her strident words caught the attention of everyone within earshot. Already several were drifting closer, glancing to each other, murmuring.

“The only one making a speech here is you, Clothilde,” Tom muttered, looking at his shoes rather than her face.

“Right,” Dick chimed in with more fervor. “And there was a time you felt rather differently about Gaston. You admired him as much as we did.”

Her face looked hot. “Never!” she boldly denied.

“You’re going to pretend you weren’t right there along with him, the night we went to the castle? You were up front with us leading the charge!”

There were a few sounds from the spectators as Dick scored a point with that one. Clothilde glanced around, flustered, but losing none of her self-righteousness.

“W-well who could blame me? I was alone then,” she sniffed melodramatically, voice breaking like she might cry; “A poor lonely woman in her older years, with no one to turn to, left to follow the example of the village men and easily taken advantage of.”

Tom and Dick’s expressions indicated they’d a hard time picturing her “easily taken advantage of” by anyone, but neither dared say it.

Clothilde dabbed one eye. But though her histrionics seemingly came from genuine emotion it did little to dampen her convictions.

“I was misled. We all were.” Her voice grew clearer again, meaner. “By that manipulative brute!”

Her words drew angry sounds of agreement from the others.

“I almost lost my fiancée because of Gaston,” came a young male voice from the back of the crowd.

“And I my brother,” yelled another, this time female.

“Two of _my_ brothers, a daughter-in-law, and a nephew.” Stepping forward the baker spat on the ground. “ _That_ is what I think of that man! May he rot where he lies, whatever’s left of him!”

This pronouncement drew heated shouts, fists pumped in the air, jeering.

“Gaston might’ve had a pretty face,” one woman said, scoffing, “but underneath it he was rotten and heartless.”

“Such a blowhard,” said another woman, snide. “All he ever talked about was himself.”

“All he ever cared about, either,” was the first woman’s rejoinder.

“Some of us may have been charmed for a time,” went the oyster-seller with a jealous glance, “but I think we can all agree, we’re better off without him.”

“What’d he ever do for this village anyway?” one man asked. “Sure, he fought in a war, once. But ages ago, and then he spent the years after milking us for favors!”

“He treated us like his vassals,” a second man shouted. “Like he thought he was better than us!”

“He was nothing but a thug,” said the butcher. When the crowd hummed in approval, he added even louder, “A rogue!” Another hum, and louder still, “A _villain!_ ”

“Belle was right, after all,” one housewife concluded. “She’s the one that had Gaston pegged as a monster.”

That appeared to be the final say. The crowd started talking at once, turning to speak to one another in smaller groups, everyone yelling over each other, making a calamitous din but ultimately saying nothing.

Or saying nothing but the one thing, the prevailing sentiment, over and over.

Dick and Tom stood in their corner, isolated from the rest, the first man’s arms folded as the other leaned an elbow against his shoulder. Looking awkward and forgotten.

And high overhead, not a one of the villagers knew that the source of their communal ire had heard every word.

*

LeFou wasn’t sure what to expect when he went into the church. Oh, he knew how the service would go – he remembered it well enough from his childhood. He didn’t anticipate such things ever really changed.

What he was unsure about was the others that’d be there beside him. What reception he would get.

He thought he heard a few startled whispers as he walked in, neighbors turning to one another to make note. He was certain that had to do more with him being there after so many years without going, though, and not…anything else.

At least that was what he told himself.

He held his head up high, didn’t look at the whisperers. Did his best to drown out the sound entirely in his mind. He slid into a pew towards the middle back, scooted over so he wouldn’t be on the end of the aisle. As if this were business as usual other villagers came and moved in around him.

Gaston had been right, unfortunately: the church was very crowded. Some old woman elbowed LeFou as she sat and he tried not to gulp for air, feeling claustrophobic in the stuffy heat.

The view in front of him was blocked by ribbons, bonnets, even wigs. Women in Villeneuve had rare occasion to dress up, to see and be seen, and despite the irony of it couldn’t resist using the occasion of a public mass. Some of the men weren’t much better.

Madame Mayette and her daughters unsurprisingly were among the worst offenders. At least the woman stayed within the bounds of good taste, while the girls had painted their faces to the point of gaudiness.

He saw Stanley squeezed in with his aunt and cousins. He’d clearly borrowed one of the triplets’ kohl sticks and was wearing a fantastic violet scarf.

Stanley noticed him, turning in his seat to gaze back, smiling warmly.

Feeling an odd mix of guilt and giddiness – was he really _flirting_ in a church? – LeFou offered a similar smile in return.

When the priest at last entered he spotted LeFou at once, though he did nothing to call attention to him. But he gave a welcoming expression at the beginning when his head turned LeFou’s way as he started to speak: he was happy he’d joined them, that much was clear.

Awkward as it was, that gratified LeFou and made him feel good for coming. It was nice to be wanted somewhere.

The subject of the sermon had to do with charity. There was some shifting and coughing from the more notable miserly residents of town. Pere Robert acted like he heard nothing.

An interesting shuffle occurred once service concluded. Everyone wanted to leave, melting in the heat of the small cramped building and their heavy clothes. But no one wanted to display the bad form of visibly fleeing.

Pere Robert stood with hands folded, watching with serene expression as his congregation hobbled swiftly out, engaging in stilted and rapid goodbyes. LeFou wondered if this part happened every Sunday.

He did his best to disentangle himself quickly, but it was no use. Too many people wanted to say hello, coming over to exchange pleasantries. Their expressions were openly inquisitive though no one dared come out and admit they were curious what made him finally come back to church. They just talked around it.

He was accosted by a small group of the eldest women in town who hung around him in a circle, pelting him with compliments of passive-aggressive sweetness, making their disapproval clear for any resident of Villeneuve who went so long without properly respecting religion. By the time LeFou pried himself away he felt like _he_ might’ve aged half a decade.

He gave one last harried wave then walked home fast as his legs would carry him, anxious what he might find when he arrived.

Gaston was missing, which did absolutely nothing to ease his mind. LeFou checked the back porch, the stable and the roof, before he gave up and went back in to sit heavily on the sofa, puffing.

He kept imagining any second he’d hear screams and shouting from the village.

He knew this was a horrible idea. Too much could go wrong.

The front door slammed and LeFou jumped up as Gaston tromped in, absently shoving the door shut again behind him.

“Quiet,” LeFou fussed. He ran to the window to see if someone heard. It didn’t appear that anyone had, though, and the coast was clear. He relaxed again and turned to face his friend.

“So,” he began, “how did it-”

Gaston hurled the large bag he was carrying to the floor. The objects inside struck one another in a terrible clatter.

“…go?” LeFou trailed off, wincing.

Without looking back at him Gaston stormed off through the house.

LeFou dropped to check the contents of the bag, but nothing appeared to have broken. Warily, uneasy, he stood and trailed in Gaston’s wake. His path was easy enough to find: he’d kicked aside a rug, knocked over a chair, and closed the back door so hard one of the hinges popped off.

“Gaston?” LeFou raised his voice tenuously. Getting no response, he steeled himself and followed out back.

When he got outside he was just in time to watch Gaston hauling a bucket up from the well.

Without pause, he dumped the entire contents over his own head, letting out a stifled gasp from the cold water.

Then with a sound of barely repressed fury he threw the emptied bucket, hard as he could, at the well’s stone base. The wood and metal bands collapsed, smashed by his force to bits.

“What _happened?_ ” LeFou demanded, aghast.

Gaston couldn’t speak at first. The water rolled off his back but soaked his hair, face and part of his coat, leaving him looking half-drowned. He stood with neck stiff and shoulders raised, struggling with a fit of temper he was trying to keep down. Making groaning, grunting noises he gnashed his teeth as he breathed, whole body twitching.

LeFou clasped a hand to his mouth reflexively when Gaston looked up and he saw his eyes were wolfish and bright yellow.

At his expression, Gaston staggered away. He rested his weight on the well, heaving for air, but gradually his breathing grew slower and normalized.

LeFou exhaled properly when Gaston opened his eyes again and they’d gone back to their usual appearance.

“I made it to my cabin and back,” Gaston said, stilted, with a false brightness that sounded weak and wrong.

“I noticed,” LeFou said, just as strained.

“I told you I could. Didn’t I?” Gaston leaned his back against the well’s edge. “I got there by walking a path across the village rooftops. I jumped from house to house.”

“Huh. That’s…actually kind of clever.” LeFou blinked. “And nobody saw you?”

“No. Nobody.” He shook his head, strands of wet hair flapping. “I was completely hidden from sight.” He gave an awful smile. “Which put me in the perfect position to eavesdrop, as it turns out.”

“Oh no.” Whatever came next, it couldn’t be good.

Gaston took a few steps towards him, teeth still showing in that forced sardonic grin.

“I overheard a group of people having a conversation about me. Do you know what they said?”

“I can begin to guess.”

“They had quite a few things to say. About how better off everyone is, not having me around anymore. How glad they are that I’m dead. Why, if you believe the things I heard, you’d think it turns out all those years I was barely tolerated!”

LeFou winced hard.

He couldn’t blame anyone for saying what they felt, perhaps. But his heart went out to Gaston all the same. It couldn’t be easy to experience that – finding out firsthand how his reputation had plummeted.

“I tried warning you,” he reminded him.

“You did.” Gaston nodded.

He sat down heavily on the stones of the well. Sodden hair dripped in his face.

“I didn’t believe you. But I know the truth now. My name means nothing to these people anymore. Nothing!”

He was breathing raggedly again, hands curled into fists, digging into his legs. LeFou stepped forward, reaching out.

“It’s all right,” he said quickly, trying to be soothing. “It’s going to be all right. Just don’t think about it. It’s only going to upset you.”

He wracked his brain for what to do next. His usual tactic was out of the question. Thinking of the war might cheer Gaston up and encourage him, but memories of blood and battles would only feed the wolf.

LeFou managed to inject reasonableness in his tone. Like it was straightforward and easy. “Gaston. You can’t let it control you. Don’t give in.”

He held out his hand and Gaston clasped him like he was a lifeline, each of them gripping tightly to the other’s wrist. LeFou gave a reassuring squeeze.

“You can do this. You know that. This thing that’s trying to take over you, that’s not who you are. You’re stronger than it, all right? You’re _strong_. Remember that, and remember yourself. You know exactly who you are.”

LeFou had been speaking with confidence and at first Gaston responded. But something about the last thing he said – agony flickered across his face, and abruptly he shoved LeFou off.

“Who I _am?_ ” He stumbled to his feet as he announced mockingly, “I’m the hero of Villeneuve!”

LeFou stared up at him as he realized Gaston was no longer mad – he was just _upset_.

He honestly couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen the other man this way. If he even had. Gaston always channeled pain and disappointments into anger. That was how he felt every negative emotion.

Not this time, it seemed. He shook his head again. “You said the other day I’d be the master of my life. But I don’t have _anything_ anymore. Not even control over my own body!”

LeFou cringed. He didn’t regret what he’d said, but he thought now his words could’ve been better chosen.

It didn’t matter. Gaston was on a roll, despair boiling over. “This isn’t how things are supposed to be. I had so many plans, I…” His voice turned feeble. “I was supposed to get married.”

How he said it, so sad and small, hit LeFou like a punch in the stomach.

Gaston was acting with a child’s simplicity to having the world shattered in front of him. He gazed at LeFou despondently, eyes wide, like if he begged hard enough he’d get the right answer and set everything back into place.

“I wanted to be married before the fall. I planned on it. I’d be settled down by now, maybe even finished building a new house. We’d be working on starting our family.”

“I know,” LeFou went, because he didn’t know what else to say.

“None of it happened. I don’t understand. No one says ‘no’ to Gaston, I always get what I want. Instead…”

He glanced around, face twisting in disbelief and revulsion.

“One night. Everything went wrong in a single night. How could it change so suddenly? One night, and I lost everything. I…” His voice broke, struggling, nearly hysterical. “What’s happened to my _life?_ ”

“I’m sorry,” LeFou said.

He _was_ sorry.

He couldn’t pretend Gaston didn’t deserve what happened with how he acted, but it hurt to watch him break like this. To see him suffer.

Gaston slumped and sank to his knees, staring blindly at the ground.

LeFou came over and stood next to him, rubbing the back of his neck. If nothing else he could ease away some tension.

Gaston leaned into the touch, letting eyes fall shut as he rested his hand against LeFou’s. After a moment his fingers curled around his wrist and he tugged it away from his neck, pulling LeFou’s arm around so it was in front of his face. LeFou didn’t resist, watching curiously.

Gaston was kneeling before him and without looking he held LeFou’s forearm, cupping hand in one of his own with the other grasping his elbow, pushing back his sleeve as he pressed the arm to his cheek. He nuzzled over LeFou’s pulse point, sniffing him, gently rubbing with his face and the side of his throat.

LeFou was bemused. Gaston had always been a tactile person, slapping men on the back, shaking hands with vigor, draping his arm around women he flirted with. But this was way outside any social norm.

“This is another wolf thing?” he guessed.

Gaston froze. But he didn’t open his eyes or pull away. “Yes,” he mumbled.

He must’ve been really upset, to not even try stopping himself this time. LeFou tried not to focus on the feel of that hand in his, of stubble and warm breath against his skin. It was far more distracting than the damp clamminess still clinging to the other.

“All right then.” If it made Gaston feel better, he decided he didn’t care. Not just now, anyway.

Apparently that was all the permission Gaston needed because he went right back to nuzzling his arm and smelling him.

LeFou tried to hold still. He toyed with his free hand, fingers twitching. He was close to nervously whistling just for something to do because if he thought about things too hard the bizarreness of the situation was going to get to him.

After another long moment passed Gaston had relaxed visibly. He was even smiling, faintly.

“Ah, LeFou…what would I do without you?”

The old remark, and the way he said it – careless and assured, unthinking – struck at LeFou in precisely the wrong way. It was bad enough here he was, still doing things to keep Gaston happy, even after everything. After their conversation the other day, this was too much.

“I don’t know,” LeFou responded, blunt and unforgiving. “It’s pretty obvious you have no idea how to fend for yourself.”

Gaston pulled back from him sharply, staring up.

“You’re still angry,” he realized.

“Of course I am. Is that so hard to understand after everything I told you? We’ve gone far past forgive and forget.”

He was trying not to lose his patience. What did it take to get through to him, the road they’d wandered down there was no turning back from?

Gaston dropped his hands, mouth pulling down.

“But it’s not supposed to be this way,” he protested. “Don’t you miss it, LeFou? Don’t you wish things could be as they should?” He sounded pleading. “We had good times, didn’t we?”

“We did.” LeFou swallowed. “And yes, I do wish it could be that easy. A part of me wishes we could go back to before, when things were simple.”

It was bittersweet to recollect. Their adventures together, the pattern to their shared life. Long nights at the tavern, drunkenly singing and roaring with laughter. Riding side by side for hours talking about nothing. Making camp in the woods after a successful day’s hunt, relaxing beneath the stars.

LeFou wished he could pretend nothing ever happened. It would be easy, maybe. All he had to do was give in. Relax into the embrace of their reliable friendship, their history; once more they’d be a duet – Gaston an unstoppable lively force, LeFou happy just to be near him and bask in his glory.

But it couldn’t be like that. Gaston did things most would consider unforgivable. LeFou didn’t know if he could ever trust him again.

How could he love someone – in any sense of the word – that he couldn’t trust not to use him?

“But life doesn’t work that way, Gaston,” he told him. “We can’t go back. Not after how things have changed. I’m sorry.”

He dropped to his knees so their eyes were more level. Rested both hands on Gaston’s shoulders, after absently brushing some still-damp hair out of his face.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Really I am. This isn’t easy for me either. It hurts me, too.”

“Then why…?”

“ _Because_.” He clenched his jaw, briefly. “Just…because. It’s how things are now. You’ve got to accept that.”

Gaston had a sullen expression, frowning deeply, brow furrowed. But he didn’t argue. He just knelt there silently looking miserable.

Unsure what else to do LeFou slid his hands down his back, hugging him lightly.

In response Gaston put one arm across LeFou’s shoulders, tugging him fiercely into a tighter embrace. Their faces were next to each other and LeFou could hear him breathing. He was dripping on LeFou’s shirt.

He held back a sigh – even in little ways, he offered and Gaston took.

It wasn’t the small trespasses that bothered him, really. Those he could live with. But they always kept going until they stacked up into something big.

It didn’t matter right now, though, he decided. Their time left together was limited.

In the name of their old friendship he’d keep giving in. For now.

*

The next morning came and Gaston awoke as usual. Everything still felt so wrong.

He washed and dressed and tended to his hair and shaved. The actions seemed empty. His hands carrying on of their own accord, simply because this was what he’d always done.

There didn’t seem to be a point to it all. His very existence was deprived of purpose.

He sat down to breakfast and it took him twice as long to eat, though he was hungry, because he kept listlessly pushing food around his plate.

Afterward he went to the parlor and sat by a window. Having found a small scrap of wood he worked at it with one of his knives, whittling it down piece by piece.

He’d a vague notion of carving it into some shape or other, but the moments passed and he’d never made up his mind. Now he just sat there scraping off one flake at a time, the motion vaguely soothing for its meaningless repetition, staring blankly as one end grew gradually sharper and thinner as if he was making a spear.

LeFou came over to him. “Well I’m probably going back to the grocer’s later today, or maybe tomorrow. So let me know if there’s anything in particular that you want.”

He paused, watching Gaston, taking in his appearance.

“Hey,” he went slowly. “You don’t look so good.”

“I haven’t been sleeping that well.” Setting down the wood, he rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose. “Almost every night I’ve been having these…vague, unsettling dreams.”

“Really?” LeFou was surprised. “That’s not typical for you.”

“No. It isn’t,” he muttered.

He didn’t tend to dream at _all_ , good or bad. He slept soundly, deeply, blissfully empty of nothing but rest. Each morning he woke refreshed and carried on. He’d always assumed it yet another way in which he was superior to most men.

But maybe it was about never having much in the way of imagination or worry – or regret. Now there was so much unrest inside him it was as if it followed him, even into his sleep.

He set down his knife as well and laced fingers together, tightly squeezing one knee. He felt ill-tempered; wearied and irritated with being so out of sorts. Tired of having nothing to do, of these things hanging over him. This _loup-garou_ curse. His looming punishment at the hands of the Prince.

He despised feeling like this. He wanted to go back to being confident and – _happy_. Was that so much to ask?

“Look at me,” LeFou said, gently, and Gaston obliged, turning with empty expression. “Are you all right, though? I mean, is…is there anything I can do?”

He was watching Gaston uneasily, eyes slightly wide as they traced his features with scrutiny, brow wrinkled in thought. Gaston could smell anxiety drifting off him in a wave.

“You’re worried,” Gaston noted. For some reason his voice came out low and hoarse.

“I – yes?” LeFou blinked, giving a nervous smile. “Don’t you think I have reason to be worried? You’re acting kind of odd.”

“But, you’re _worried_.”

Frustrated at trying to put it into words Gaston lurched to his feet, moving towards him. LeFou pulled back in reflexive alarm before standing his ground.

“You’re worried…about me. If you don’t want to be friends any longer, if you want nothing to do with me, then why would you worry?”

“It’s not that simple.” LeFou sighed. “It’s like a habit by now. You can’t just shut those feelings off.”

“I always can,” Gaston said brusquely. LeFou’s eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“First of all: I think I’ve had to talk you down and cheer you up too many times over the years to fully agree with that statement,” he said, drawling and harsh. “Second of all it’s not the same thing, Gaston! We’re talking about sentiment, here. Deep emotional pain, things like grief, or…or longing.”

LeFou stared up at him, somewhat incredulous.

“Do you really not know what I’m talking about?”

He did not. His habit had forever been to discard any feelings that weren’t useful to him. That threatened to get in his way, that couldn’t be channeled into something proactive.

When sorrow or fear tried to overwhelm him he’d push them aside, stop thinking about whatever made him feel such a way. If he was jealous or disappointed with the wanting of something then his natural recourse was to go get it. Or distract himself until he didn’t want it anymore, as a last resort.

But he’d nothing to distract himself now, the outlets of his life in Villeneuve taken from him. And the things he wanted were not so easily claimed: his freedom, his reputation, his humanity.

His fears and unhappiness didn’t seem so lightly defeated now – they loomed before him, larger than the Beast that struck him down that fateful night.

Gaston looked away mutely, frowning hard in exasperated confusion.

His irritation was starting to bite into him, set him on edge. He was turning grumpy. And the more his mood soured, the more he could feel the wolf pace in its cage beneath his skin.

This was the longest he’d remained human, he realized, since he’d been cursed. The pressure from not giving the wolf room to run was building. It wanted out. He started rubbing his hands together, absently.

“Is what you heard yesterday still bothering you?” LeFou guessed, watching closely. “I know that had to have been a painful way to find all that out.”

“Those ungrateful people,” Gaston seethed. “It’s like they’ve forgotten everything that I ever did for them! They appreciated what I am, once – my strength, my decisiveness, my natural charisma.” He held his head up as he spoke. “Now it’s as if they feel those very same things are all flaws!”

LeFou looked like he was weighing his words carefully before he responded. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

“It doesn’t make any sense to me!”

“No. I expect that it wouldn’t.” LeFou gave a thin smile.

“You didn’t hear what they said. The way they went on, I never would’ve expected – why, _Clothilde_ , of all people-”

“Oh, forget about Clothilde. She’s obsessed with the status quo. But she’s a little too thrilled to have her husband back, and it’s made her especially irrational. You know she isn’t happy unless she has somebody to disapprove of.”

“They said I was a blowhard, LeFou! That I deserved to rot in the ground. That I was manipulative and a brute.”

“I know.”

“They said I was a villain.”

“I know, Gaston – I know,” LeFou stressed. “While you were off in the woods, I’ve still been around here, remember? Believe me, no one’s been censoring themselves on my account. I’ve heard it all.”

“They said I was a _monster_ ,” Gaston emphasized, and at that LeFou fell silent.

The weight of that word now carried a chill that cut through them both.

His friend looked stricken on his behalf, but clearly didn’t know what to say. How could he deny it, when ironically he was the only one in the village who knew what Gaston had become?

Unable to bear the heavy silence Gaston moved again, closing the space between them. Shaking his head he stared at his friend.

“I am _not_ a monster, LeFou.” He raised arms helplessly even as his words were stubborn. “I’m trying to fight this. I’m doing everything I can. I don’t want-”

“I know, I believe you. It’s all right, Gaston.” LeFou patted his arm. “You don’t have to talk about it anymore.”

He didn’t want to talk about it. But he didn’t know how to get rid of this great ball of unease and shame and resentment built up inside him, thinking about how people considered him now. Knowing how worse it’d be if they found out he was _loup-garou._

He was used to being on top of things, the little world of their village. Now he was down, down, down, at the very bottom. The kind of person most avoided in the streets. The kind they spat on, glanced at with disgust.

He pictured the beggars he’d walked by in his lifetime – dirty, ugly people in ragged clothes, withered before their time, eyes empty from lack of dignity and pride.

Was that going to be _him?_

If the Prince didn’t execute him then he’d lock him away. He’d spend the rest of his existence chained in a dungeon. If he was eventually let free he’d be branded as a criminal, literally or otherwise.

He wouldn’t be welcome in the only home he’d ever had. He’d have to wander the countryside, and where could he turn? Decent people didn’t want convicts living near him, working for them. He wouldn’t be able to buy food to eat – hunger would get to him and he’d change, the wolf taking over, taking him back into the wild where he’d live like an animal, _become_ an animal, forget he was ever human until-

Werewolves ate people, isn’t that what they said? They stole babies and tore out grown men’s throats.

_“Gaston!”_ LeFou gripped tightly, shaking him. Whatever he’d seen in his friend’s face left him pale. “Hey, listen to me! Snap out of it!”

Blindly he grasped LeFou by the shoulder, pulling him in until they were standing chest to chest. Air sounded loud in his ears – he hadn’t even realized he was breathing hard.

“I feel like I’m going insane,” he confessed, ragged.

He didn’t know what frightened him more: the thought of dying, or living as a man-eating lunatic.

“You’re…fine. _Really_ ,” LeFou pressed, somehow acting like he believed it. Enough even to convince Gaston. “I’m here. Everything’s going to work out.”

Gaston closed his eyes and sighed, taking in the warmth from LeFou’s body, his solid presence, his closeness. Breathing in his scent.

Wolves were strong in numbers, comforted by the safety implied being near their pack. They relied on touch to communicate, on smell.

Often even in human form Arethe’s pack acted this way. Standing close together, shoulder to shoulder. Sleeping in a pile. Greeting one another by rubbing noses, stroking hair, marking each other with their scents.

Carrying your pack’s scent away with you signaled belonging; finding it again meant you were home.

Though he hated the inhuman reasoning behind why he did this, Gaston couldn’t deny it soothed something within him. LeFou was the nearest thing he had to pack now, and he needed comfort. He couldn’t help himself.

Eyes closed he held the other man in almost a full embrace, bending down to his hair, breathing in. Going further until he was nuzzling the side of his face with his own.

LeFou bore it silently in seeming resignation. Evidently he’d witnessed the wolfish behavior too many times to bother questioning anymore.

His fear and worry and doubt and unhappiness were fading. The wolf basked in the familiar and said ‘ _pack is here, all is safe, all is well’_ ; wanting badly to relax Gaston could only go ‘ _yes, yes’_ and agree. He’d always relied on LeFou to make him feel better in rough times, anyway. Was this really so different?

He felt the gentle rub of LeFou’s stubble on his chin, the whiskery brush of that ridiculous mustache.

LeFou was soft and warm and sturdy. Even before, he’d known the shape and weight of his body – he was the only one Gaston ever let in that close.

He thought nothing of it. They’d played together as boys, fought together as soldiers, now they danced and wrestled together whenever Gaston felt like it. He knew the feel of LeFou’s hands through his hair when he trimmed it for him, callused fingers against his skin when he bandaged an injury, grip pressing on his shoulders and back as he massaged aching muscles.

Continuing to nuzzle LeFou’s face with his own their lips met and, thoughtless, it only seemed natural to do what he would with anyone when that happened – he kissed him.

Gaston was rarely a light kisser. He pressed down on soft lips against his own, trying to get them to part; leaning into it, pushing roughly, forceful, trying to claim what would be his-

A punch landed hard in his midsection and he let go, stumbling back, wheezing. His eyes popped open from the bright hot pain.

LeFou was staring with incredulous fury, fist still raised halfway. “What the _hell_ was that?”

Gaston gaped at him as he struggled to get his breath back, trying to remember what happened.

He realized very quickly LeFou thought he’d been toying with him. There was disgust and betrayal written into every line of his expression. He must’ve figured it was a joke to Gaston, that lingering attraction both knew about.

But that wasn’t why he’d done it. He knew that even as he was replaying it over in his mind, because while it happened he hadn’t been thinking. Hadn’t realized what he was doing.

“I…” Gaston stammered. He raised a hand towards his own lips. “I wasn’t trying to…”

LeFou’s head tilted slightly as he continued glowering at him, confused but impatient.

“I didn’t know it was you, I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing,” he tried to explain, eyes still wide. “I didn’t want…”

But he couldn’t claim he’d somehow mistaken LeFou for a woman. Even now as he recalled it he was very aware of the difference. The body against his had been heavy instead of delicate, skin rougher instead of soft, and LeFou’s scent was – well, it was _LeFou,_ but it was anything but feminine.

He’d been kissing someone who hadn’t been willowy curves in his embrace, someone with a wider jaw and facial hair that rubbed against his own, and Gaston waited for revulsion to rise but it wasn’t coming.

“I didn’t mean to, but I…wanted it,” he realized aloud in a croak. “I _enjoyed_ that. I…”

He snapped his mouth shut and hurried away into another room. Needing distance between them, suddenly, because it felt like something in his head was breaking.

In the bedroom he paced the floor, hands up with palms curled before him; making the occasional desperate sound, practically a whimper.

This couldn’t be – it was _absurd._ This was him, after all. _Him!_ He was the pinnacle of manhood, how could he ever be interested in anything but women? Women of many shapes and sizes, yes, but – _women._

Honestly, what would he even _do_ with a man? After kissing LeFou on the lips, what: next he would have tangled fingers in his curls, stroked the line of his jaw with one thumb as he cupped his chin, easing his neck back, pulling off his scarf, tugging shirt aside so he could continue kissing down the side of his throat onto his shoulder, pulling him closely so their hips met and-

Gaston’s internal monologue trailed off, flustered, blood rushing to his cheeks as he discovered he apparently did in fact know what to do with a man. Or at least had some idea where to start.

LeFou wandered in, arms folded tight, giving Gaston a dubious look.

“You know what, it’d be great if we could maybe get through one day without some sort of incident…” He cut himself short, and sighed. “Can you calm down and talk to me? What’s going on?”

“That wasn’t intentional,” Gaston murmured, numbly. “I wasn’t planning on it, but I did – enjoy that kiss.”

“Gee, _thanks?_ ”

“You don’t understand.” He shook his head. “I didn’t mean for it to be you, no offense, but you’re definitely not-”

He gestured at LeFou, in all his obvious maleness, helplessly.

The other’s eyebrows went way up, seeming to get it. “Sadly, I take that observation as a compliment.”

“Right? I did that with a man, and on some level I knew what I was doing. I enjoyed it, and I wanted to-”

He couldn’t finish that sentence. Didn’t know how to finish that sentence.

He glanced around frantically, at one point clutching the sides of his head, before he gave up and sank onto the edge of bed. It felt like he didn’t sit down so much as his legs gave out.

“What is _happening_ to me?”

LeFou’s mouth opened as he stared again. Comprehension dawned on his face.

“Oh boy,” he said slowly, grasping the reasons behind Gaston’s minor breakdown.

Gaston had crossed his arms and was breathing in short starts through his nose, trying to hold very still.

LeFou looked concerned, but stunned.

Neither of them said anything for a long pause.

“I don’t understand. This isn’t possible,” Gaston went at last. “I’ve always been – I’m attracted to women! I’m…still attracted to women, aren’t I?”

He thought about it. Recollecting some of his encounters, during the war, after – girlish giggles and fluttering eyelashes, the places he’d put his hands and his mouth. Tugging the laces of a corset, sliding up a skirt, the friction and heat as giggles gradually turned into sighs and moans.

Despite current circumstance he smiled in pleasure at the memories.

“Ah yes,” he deduced. “Positively, still.”

LeFou looked unamused. “You know, you can be interested in both.”

“What?” Gaston was utterly flummoxed. _“Both?”_

“Oh god…how do I know more about this than you?” LeFou pressed palms over his eyes before dropping them. “Yes! You can be interested in both!” He was on the verge of disbelieving laughter. “I’m not, but I’ve met those who are.”

He struggled to absorb that. Was it truly possible?

“…Both,” he said, slowly, drawing out the word as he stared into nothing.

He fell into pensive thought.

When they denounced the evils of men desiring other men the emphasis was how it was a distraction, driving one away from living a natural life. That a man could ever want to behave towards a man the way that he should towards a woman, instead of simply being with a woman instead. There was no talk of there being _variation_.

But it wasn’t outlandish those sources might be missing details, or simply inaccurate. It was only during the war he’d first heard there were women that desired _other women_. Surely no one in Villeneuve had mentioned or perhaps even knew about _that_.

And the same folk that so denounced sodomy tended to speak the same about adultery, or lustful behavior in general, or gambling and excessive drink. And on those points Gaston…did not agree, certainly. He didn’t think it’d break something inside of him to have fun, for heaven’s sake.

So maybe it was possible to have such interests. But if it were true, more importantly if it was true of him…that’d still make him, ultimately, a man capable of desiring other men.

The implications of that were staggering.

Bad enough he’d become something other than human, unwillingly, but this? It’d be true mark against the very fiber of his being, against his masculinity. A sign he wasn’t perfect at all, secretly defective.

Gaston put a hand to his stomach, feeling vaguely ill.

“But, why me?” he questioned weakly. “How? It doesn’t seem right. I mean, look at me! How could I ever be-”

“Be what?” LeFou asked. His voice was cold.

Too late Gaston realized the mistake he was making. He swallowed, giving him a guilty look.

“Never mind.”

“Oh no. I want to hear you finish that sentence.” LeFou’s face brokered no argument. He’d folded his arms again, countenance growing rather dark.

He struggled to find a good but honest way to complete his thought.

“I’ve always been the one other men want to be like, the height of achievement – strong, and tall, and charming, and good at every task to prove my worth. It makes no sense for me to, to…it’s just that there’s nothing about me that’s…abnormal.”

“There it is.”

LeFou shut his eyes once, hard. He looked as if it was exactly as he expected, but still filled him with bitter disappointment.

“I’m only saying what other people think,” Gaston exclaimed defensively. “You know what I mean!”

“Yep. I sure do.” He breathed out, sounding like the air was squeezed deep from within his lungs. “Maybe I could’ve gone my whole life, though, without hearing you say it aloud.”

The look he was giving Gaston was possibly the worst one yet. He’d thought it was bad enough to see how furious LeFou had been, before.

Now though he just seemed tired. Like he’d completely given up.

“I’m not even trying to talk about you,” Gaston tried reasoning with him. “This is about whatever’s going on with me.”

“So what else is new?” LeFou quipped, though his voice fell flat. He waved a hand. “You know what, I…I’m really not in the mood to deal with this, right now. So I’m just not going to.”

He protested, “But-”

“No. I said, no.” He held up his hand again. “Forget about it. I’m done. I’ve got other things to do today and you? You can try figuring this out by yourself.”

As Gaston stared helplessly, LeFou turned his back and walked away, shutting the bedroom door behind him.

He felt like he’d been left alone at the bottom of a deep pit, with no way out. And he’d just been deprived of his only source of light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The figure of speech Adam uses, “quand on parle du loup”, is a real French idiom. Literally it translates as “when you speak of the wolf”. It’s a variant on a longer phrase “quand on parle du loup, on en voit la queue” - “when you speak of the wolf, you see his tail”. As you may guess from the phrasing, it’s basically 100% analogous to the English idiom “when you speak of the Devil (here he comes)”.
> 
> I'd also like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has commented or left kudos on this story. I fell out of habit with directly replying to most comments on my stories awhile back (I've been at this a long time, and in the past have had experiences both on ff.net and livejournal that have left me feeling too awkward to want to automatically engage with everyone) but I want to make it clear I see your reactions to my writing and do really appreciate it. So, again, thank you. 
> 
> As of the posting of this chapter the AO3 version of this story has now caught up to the tumblr one, so there may be greater periods of delay between updates. Thank you all in advance for your patience.


	5. I held it in but now it seems you’ve set it running free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I know I took the path that you would never want for me  
> I know I let you down didn't I  
> so many sleepless nights where you were waiting up on me  
> well I'm just a slave unto the night
> 
> Now remember when I told you that's the last you'll see of me  
> remember when I broke you down to tears  
> I know I took the path that you would never want for me  
> I gave you hell through all the years"
> 
> \- imagine dragons, "I bet my life"

Belle had cloistered herself in the library. By all accounts without interest in leaving her self-imposed seclusion.

The idea the new mistress of the household would want to be alone in that part of the castle; that she’d wish to be there to avoidance of other tasks, even that she wouldn’t appreciate any form of intrusion – these things had good reason to, by this point, not feel the slightest bit strange to the staff.

And normally they wouldn’t remark on it, much. Normally they’d find no reason to fuss or worry.

But there was a pall over this particular occasion making it feel very different indeed.

She’d gone into the vast rooms, shut herself behind the grand door, and had not come out. She called for no one to come join her. She asked for nothing, not even so basic as building the fire or bringing her fresh ink and parchment for her cataloging activities or a making her a pot of tea.

After several hours Cogsworth made his way in with unambiguous air of nervous anxiety - mustache twitching, wringing his hands, bowed slightly forward in a preemptive display of respectful subservience that made him appear to be shrinking. Acting as if he was to face a ferocious bear, not a dainty young lady.

Some time later Plumette made a trip herself. Unlike Cogsworth she walked in calmly, almost casually, as if nothing was amiss. Under the circumstances her indifferent grace carried its own kind of unspoken boldness.

Belle politely but firmly rejected both head of household and attendant. No, she did not want assistance, she did not need anything, she’d no intention of leaving to have a meal in the dining room or any other previously arranged business.

She also had no interest in joining her husband for tea, dinner, a walk around the gardens, a ride through the countryside, a waltz in the ballroom, a picnic, a recital, or any other frivolous amusements he would like to contrive.

None such interludes were planned, or indeed had been offered.

Belle made her position clear all the same - as it seemed, she expressed, Adam had developed the recent habit of making plans without consulting her.

The servants however came of their own concerns, their own accord. He hadn’t sent them to check on her. And he didn’t come himself.

At least, Belle noted bitterly to herself, he had that much sense.

She was avoiding looking at the clock as she examined the tomes she sorted through feverishly, and so was unsure how many hours passed when she heard the door creak open. She pressed her lips together hard, brows drawing tight, and made a point of looking down fiercely at the large book open on her lap.

“Belle?”

Her father’s gentle inquiry banished the knot of resistance built up within her. She lifted her head, blinking, with a sigh.

“Yes, Papa?”

He glanced around, taking in the sights. The otherwise marvelous library was a bit of disaster, books removed from shelves, piled up on tables, sorted into piles and then forgotten as she moved on to something else. Some larger books had scraps of paper and ribbons sticking out of them at thick intervals, marking places to be consulted later. Between the books were more pieces of scrap paper and open notebooks with random phrases jotted down, some copied from the books directly and some words seemingly inspired by them.

Papa looked from this to Belle herself. She had on the simplest of her new frocks, a light garment scarcely more in adornment than the homemade dresses she might’ve once worn around the village, no petticoats underneath, the bodice loose enough she could lace it herself. Her hair was piled messily atop her head, held back with a makeshift kerchief.

“Well,” Papa observed at length, “I see we’ve been busy.”

Pressing a hand to the page of the book she still held Belle looked away, trying not to huff.

“Would you like to tell me what’s been going on?” He blinked once, face a blank of uncertain composure.

“Oh, I’m sure by now you’ve heard.”

Belle climbed down from the ladder she’d been using as a chair, perched halfway up it. She closed her heavy book, bringing it close to her chest as she sought out space on the nearest table to put it.

“The servants might be under sworn secrecy not to mention it in the village, but within these castle walls the news of impending judgment has made the rounds.”

“Yes, I know all about that.” His voice was patient. “I was more interested in what’s been going on with you.”

“You can see for yourself, what I’ve been up to. You’re looking at it.” She was clipped and tired, and part of her hated to speak to Papa this way. But she’d no spare energy left for this. “Should there be anything else? I’d rather be useful, anyway, if only to myself. Rather than _underfoot_.”

“Belle.”

As she walked by him Papa reached out, gently but firmly holding her by the shoulder. She stopped and turned, looking properly at him for the first time since he’d entered the library.

He tilted his head to one side, clearly not fooled by her closed-off mask. His face was full of concern.

“Now I know there’s more to it than that,” he remarked softly. “Please, talk to me.”

Against the earnest but piercing look on his familiar face, Belle could feel herself start to crumble. She twisted aside, enough to set the book down, and he released her.

“How am I supposed to forgive Adam for this? How could he even consider it: showing Gaston mercy what he’s done?”

“You would beg for his death otherwise?” Papa sounded more than perturbed by the principle. “Could you demand that, for anyone?”

It was a hard-hitting question from someone who knew her so well. Unable to look at her father Belle reached to press both hands down on the table in front of her, head held stiffly as she gathered her strength.

But truth was it was far easier to declare that someone didn’t deserve to be alive, that they’d earned no right to mercy, than it was to flat-out say they should die.

Particularly when there was any chance one’s words had the power to make that happen.

Watching as Belle breathed, silently, her father gave an odd quirk of a smile.

“You know, it’s times like these…” He was thoughtful. Almost wistful. “I imagine this might’ve been part of the appeal that marrying me had for your mother.”

Belle shot him a confused look.

“Well, tying herself to an artist, that meant something far different than it would if she’d married someone closer to her actual station.” He shrugged, wry. “A nobleman would’ve meant, oh, I don’t know, estates and fortunes and maybe diplomatic affairs. Important decisions that might’ve kept him away from her. A noble _man_ would have meant…the _noblesse oblige_.”

Her father said it all very factually but there was an implication there against which Belle smarted.

Logically she knew Adam was a Prince; that even allowing he meant to make her equal partner in their marriage, there were decisions he had to make for his people and his office, not for her.

At the present however Belle was far too angry for logic.

“He could have at least spoken to me before he made any decision,” she said, stiff.

“He could have,” Papa softly agreed. There was no reproach in his expression or tone. “Belle, I’m not saying you have no right to be angry, or even that you have to forgive him. He’s your spouse, not mine. This is between the two of you.”

There was a pause before he went on. He moved in closer, reaching to her.

“The reason I say anything is because I’m worried about what _you’re_ feeling.” He was trying to look at her face, his concern mounting. “I don’t think I’ve ever quite seen you like this before.”

This time when she breathed in, it was as a sniff. Her father was right to be worried. Maybe, underneath it all, Belle was worried too.

Because he was right. He never would’ve seen her like this before. She’d never felt this way.

She spun to him, to look him in the eye. “Can you tell me that you aren’t angry as well?”

“At Gaston?” Like her, she imagined, something in his countenance darkened to even say the name; there was the slightest pause as if he’d trouble pronouncing it. “I’m furious.”

He exhaled as he gave an intense frown.

“He called me a madman. He treated me without dignity, like I was less than human, simply because I was in his way. He threatened my life to try and get me to _give him your hand_ – as if your decision was something that could be bartered away like a sack of produce.” He held Belle’s shoulder again, tightly. “As if I was coward enough to even try that, to spare my own neck.”

He shook his head.

“I will spend many days of what’s left of my life sorry, Belle, that I was unable to protect you from him. That in the end you had to deal with him yourself.”

“It’s not your fault, Papa.” She rested a hand near his forehead, brushing back a stray lock of white hair. She managed a smile. “Unfortunately it took far more than a simple well-reasoned ‘no’ to get rid of Gaston.”

“And yet for all that,” he replied, meaningful, “here we are dealing with him still.”

The words struck her, as they were no doubt meant to.

That was the true problem, wasn’t it? This was supposed to be over. Months ago and done, it was supposed to be over. And now…

She felt sick inside. She wasn’t some child obsessed with fairy tales: she had earned her happy ending. Recently she’d truly begun to feel as if she’d moved on. The near-trauma that happened no longer so haunted her.

This wasn’t fair. She didn’t want to dwell on what happened. She didn’t want to feel this way. Almost more than his actions, she despised Gaston for leaving this mark on her, when he had no right.

Hatred didn’t come naturally to her. In some heated moments, though, she could feel herself beginning to learn.

“I have to warn you about something, Belle,” her father said haltingly, careful, interrupting her thoughts. “We both have more than due right to our feelings, perhaps, but…a part of being any good father is making sure one’s children don’t repeat our mistakes.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, surprised by the sudden shift.

He sighed, sounding like he almost might laugh. “By now it can be no secret, I let what happened to your mother hang over me your entire childhood. I let it drive my decisions, my behaviors. Our lives could’ve been very different.”

“But I don’t blame you for that,” Belle protested. “Considering what happened to you, how could anyone? And trying though it was at times I don’t resent our life. If nothing else, it might’ve never led me to Adam otherwise.”

Adam who she loved still, with all her heart – even if right now her feelings were shot through with unpleasantness.

“Yes, but even if it worked out for you, the fact is it didn’t have to be this way,” Papa insisted. “I let my grief over losing your mother, my sorrow, consume me. I let it take over my life. Belle,” he sought and held her gaze, “I let my negative feelings drown me, become bigger than anything else I could’ve accomplished. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

“Yes.” The word felt dragged out by the pleading intensity of his eyes boring into hers.

She felt so cold, so shaken, that for a mad half-moment she expected her teeth to start chattering. She understood too well what he was trying to say.

“Yes, I understand.”

Her rage, no matter how self-righteous, could ruin the rest of her life if she was careless enough to let it.

Already it was becoming harder and harder to let it go. Already she could feel it sinking in its claws, and it was like the pain of peeling off a scab to make a scar underneath: even as it hurt and felt unsettling and wrong, some strange part of her enjoyed it.

She blinked dazedly, feeling her eyes start to well with tears.

“Papa,” she confessed in a whisper, “I’m not really all that mad with Adam, I think. I’m just… _angry_.”

She gulped, lifting her chin to keep words from turning to sobs. Maintaining a hold on herself.

“I am so very angry, and I don’t want him to see me this way.”

“I had half-suspected as much.” Gently her father wiped her cheek, tracing after the few tears that’d fallen. His smile was sad, sympathetic. “We want to hide away the ugliest parts of ourselves from those we love most, don’t we? We don’t want them to see us at our worst.”

Belle could only shake her head to that, agreeing with him.

“It’s a natural impulse.” Papa went on, sagely, “But the truth is, it’s in those darkest moments we need their support the most. That’s why we love, Belle – so as to not be left alone with ourselves. If you truly care for someone you accept their faults, and when necessary help guide them through them.”

“Why is that easier to say,” Belle asked ironically, “when thinking of the flaws of others we love already, and not our own?”

Frustrating as Adam’s temper and pride could be when they still appeared, if in smaller fits, as her father said she accepted it as part of his nature. She understood he wasn’t perfect, that sometimes he needed her support or better judgment to combat his bad habits.

But her own faults, when she was willing to admit to them, embarrassed her. She didn’t like the idea that Adam should have to take care of her, even if it was the same way she took care of him.

Perhaps that was one of the hardest parts of being in love, and making it last. Letting someone in, trusting them with everything, that they would handle it with care. Not just the treasured parts, the secrets, but the parts of one’s soul that one would rather not even acknowledge.

“I think you’ve hit upon one of the great riddles of human nature,” Papa said. “I wish I had an answer. But even being an old man doesn’t make me perfectly wise.”

“You aren’t _that_ old, Papa,” Belle replied teasingly. Her emotions still wearied her, but already she felt better than only minutes before.

Absently she wiped her face with one hand, and glanced around at the mess she’d made of the library, grimacing.

Before she could start formulating a plan to begin putting it back to rights though her eyes fell upon a large, tall book still on the very top of one shelf.

It was bound in dark leather, almost black, the uneven cut to its pages betraying it as being a work of a great age. Probably quite rare.

She’d glanced over it once before, on one of her earliest visits to the library. She remembered what it was. Back then she’d barely been interested.

But now? Even in the midst of her other chaotic sorting, she had actually been looking for this one.

The information in it was…relevant.

Swallowing, with probably a hard-to-read expression, Belle moved away from her father and steadily towards the shelf. She climbed the ladder again and pulled the book down, handling it with care.

“Belle?” Papa stayed where he was, watching uncertainly. “What is it?”

“It’s…a guidebook, of sorts,” Belle told him, dully. Holding it at an angle she slowly turned the pages. “A taxonomy of creatures, for those interested in the otherworldly.” She paused, before stating the obvious clarification: “Dark magic.”

Flipping the pages, she read the words at the top of them aloud.

“ _Vampire,_ _sorcière, lutin, gargouille_ …”

She stopped as she fell upon the page she’d been looking for.

_“Loup-garou.”_

Beneath sprawling calligraphy there was an illustration, looking as if copied from a woodcut. A wild-looking human figure with fangs, claws and unkempt hair crawled on all fours, surrounded by skulls and dead children. At the bottom of the page was another picture, humanoid figures dancing around a bonfire, their shapes a mix somewhere between human and wolf.

Belle stared at the images in silence a moment, before she began to read the text aloud:

_“A creature that once was human but has gained the ability to transform into an oversized, cunning but bloodthirsty wolf. Commonly said to roam the countryside under the full moon, preying upon livestock and any human victim unwitting enough to be abroad such a night. Upon dying the wolf always resumes its human form. Can be weakened or killed by the touch of silver. The curse of the loup-garou is gained through several methods: by bartering with a demon in a midnight ritual, by the application of a salve of certain unholy herbs, by drinking water gathered in a wolf’s pawprint by the light of the moon, or by the bite of one such creature visited upon a surviving victim.”_

Walking closer to her father, Belle continued, moving on to the next paragraph.

_“In human form the loup-garou often displays several characteristic traits. They are aggressive of temperament and simple of mind, avoiding civilized company in favor of the wilderness, physically strong with excessive hair on the body; prone to coarse manners, primal activities and barbarous appetites, both for food and drink and other carnal pleasures.”_

Belle stopped, looked up and met her father’s gaze.

Papa gave a strangled chortle, clearly thinking the same thing she was.

“Are we entirely certain that Gaston was not in fact a werewolf _already?_ ”

Belle wished she could laugh too. She tried to grin, but on her face it just felt wrong. She looked away.

Whatever was showing it caused her father to pull out a chair and usher her into it, concerned. He pried the book from her grasp and set it aside.

“What is it, my dear?”

Ducking her head, she rubbed her temples with both sets of fingertips.

She couldn’t remember what Gaston’s smile looked like, she realized. She couldn’t recall the sound of his laugh.

Though she’d dismissed him as easily as the other boys once, he’d become positively impossible to ignore in their small village once he got back from the war – much as she would’ve liked to. Even _before_ he’d become obsessed with making her his wife and started hounding her.

It didn’t matter. Now the only thing she could picture was his face twisted in anger and jealousy, the dull gleam in his eyes as he shouted recriminations against her and her father, his eager demands for the blood of the Beast. Years of acquaintance, no matter how reluctant, had been erased.

The only version of Gaston she could see clearly was the one from that seemingly fatal night, sneering and vicious, veins in his neck standing out as face flushed with rage, white teeth glinting like fangs.

She had seen the monster in him, clearly, in those final moments. It was only fitting the world would now and forever know it as well.

Dropping her hands Belle gave her father an unhappy look.

“It was so much easier when he was just _dead_ , Papa,” she confessed. “When everything was in the past. I fear it makes me a terrible person, but it doesn’t change anything: I wish he really had died that night. That he had just stayed dead, nothing but a bad memory, unable to trouble us further.”

“Oh, Belle…I know,” Papa replied mournfully. “I know how you feel. I feel exactly the same way.”

Standing beside her he pulled her bodily close to him, doing his best to hold onto her as he did back when she was still a little girl.

And despite how grown she had become, Belle ducked her head and clung to his shirtfront, and let him.

*

It was incredibly trying, being in love with your best friend. Not being able to tell anyone, knowing how serious the consequences could be.

It certainly didn’t make it easier when it was someone like Gaston, constantly preening, posing, giving himself compliments – making it hard not to look at and admire him. Demanding he _be_ admired, in fact. Willfully oblivious to the difficulties voicing said admiration posed his most devoted companion.

Even before at the height of most smitten infatuation, there were times when LeFou about felt he deserved a medal for how much he suffered.

Maybe it’d been the worst when they were young. Gaston had been his first crush, his first only real full-fledged love – pathetic as it sounded, LeFou knew that.

Who had a chance so long as Gaston stood there? Perfect as a statue, strong as a mountain, dark and brilliant like some angry force of nature. Woe to be any other man LeFou had to try and compare; he always got the same treatment. _“Well, he’s nice,”_ went his thoughts invariably, _“but he’s no Gaston”._

When they were still boys, when the feelings first started to bloom, they frightened him much as anything. Left him feeling sick in his stomach, self-loathing and full of dread. He felt like he was committing some sort of betrayal, that he could think about his friend _like that_.

It was wrong, he knew. He tried to stop. He couldn’t tear himself away from Gaston but he tried not to let himself look either.

He spent a lot of afternoons unable to eat, those days. He’d a lot of nights where he couldn’t sleep, staring at the wall as silent tears tracked down his face.

Then the war came. Following Gaston might’ve been suicide – certainly plenty in Villeneuve seemed to think so, judging by the disbelieving reactions when they heard LeFou signed up. But for him there was no choice.

He couldn’t picture a day going by for him in the village without Gaston there.

The war meant a lot of things. His memories of the fighting, the marching, the training, were not rosy as Gaston’s were. Those were trying times – for most, they were _meant_ to be trying times.

But it also meant for the first time LeFou was away from the village, the small community where people usually looked at one the same. Where LeFou always was Madame Prudence’s unwanted nephew, picked on or ignored by his cousins; the chubby slow-walking boy trailing behind the others, head down, quiet. The one they tended to look at dismissively, saying he was clumsy and couldn’t do anything right and so stupid the Headmaster gave up teaching him to read.

Away from the village, away from that constant feeling of uselessness and insecurity, it was easier to say what he thought. It was easier to make jokes and bask in the roar of Gaston’s laughter. It was easier, when Gaston smacked his back and demanded _“LeFou, sing”_ , for him to unthinkingly belt out loud as he could.

It helped that he met other people, too, while they were away. Other boys, and men, who were like him. They helped him not to see himself as some sort of defect. Taught him he didn’t have to be alone in the world, if he didn’t want to be.

Probably what made the most difference in the end though was the war itself. Youthful worries seemed petty by comparison to something so gruesome and vast.

Too many battlefields, soaked in blood, ringing with explosions – too many nights listening to the screams and groans, dying soldiers crying out for their mothers.

Life was short, LeFou thought. Any who’d think him wrong merely for wanting to be happy, could gladly go hang themselves.

Gaston came home more arrogant than ever, transformed from Villeneuve’s favorite son to a living legend in their midst. LeFou came back different, too – though everyone was so busy looking at Gaston they never really acknowledged it. They took it in unthinkingly, absorbing this new version back into the fold without quite noticing what they’d done.

That was fine by LeFou. He wasn’t looking to be noticed. He no longer hated himself for loving Gaston – at the same time he’d accepted, he’d never be loved the same way in return.

But it was _fine_. Gaston appreciated him, he knew that he did. Gaston cared for him, even if only as a friend. And they enjoyed each other’s company. He could still be happy, so long as they were together. And it seemed a given by then they’d always be together.

LeFou still tried not to look, too much. It was all right if he pined. But he didn’t want to be…creepy.

He couldn’t always help it though. When Gaston was looking at himself in a mirror or staring picturesquely off into the distance, LeFou gazed at him silently, biting lower lip as he tried not to sigh. If Gaston undressed in front of him – the man had no modesty, of course – LeFou would do his best to avert his eyes though he couldn’t resist stealing peeks at the lines of Gaston’s shoulders or back or legs.

He knew what the ripple of Gaston’s muscles felt like, the weight of his body, from all those times he unthinkingly placed himself under LeFou’s hands. Wanting his back rubbed or help pulling off his boots or fixing his hair. Leaning against LeFou as they stumbled home from the tavern. Wrapping an arm around him as they spoke, dragging him up to join in dancing.

It gave LeFou plenty to think about – fodder for when he was alone, when his mind couldn’t help but wander. On cold nights sometimes he’d give in, fantasizing in brief flashes.

He pictured Gaston being aggressive, grabbing him roughly with those big hands, pinning him to the bed underneath him or backing him against a wall. LeFou imagined a fist yanking his hair, being taken so forcefully he was left bruised.

It was natural to think Gaston would dominate. He’d seen how he flirted, how he was with women. He probably knew no other way. Certainly he held back nowhere else in life.

Their last long hunting trip together, before Gaston’s fall – after he’d set his mind on Belle but before he’d lost his easiness about the whole affair, confidence chipping away after repeated rejection until he turned spiteful and ugly.

Gaston had still been in a good mood, then. It was easy to keep him in a good mood, so long as he’d plenty to entertain him.

They were three days out, with two more planned. Gaston was growing bored with killing every beast he set his sights on. Tomorrow he’d switch to arrows and birds just for the challenge – that night he was still restless. LeFou had sung his favorite ballads until he’d about made himself hoarse. Gaston had finished off most of the wine they’d brought, and LeFou was able to reason with him if he started on the brandy now there’d be nothing left by their final night to toast his mastery over the field.

Gaston had stood, slapped hands against his legs, and told LeFou they were going to wrestle.

LeFou couldn’t help but gulp – this never went well for him. Gaston loved to fight, and if he couldn’t find someone at the tavern to pick a brawl with he’d drag LeFou into a “friendly” spar. Considering the differences in strength and size these encounters often left him black-eyed and limping.

But of course he never considered saying “no”.

He didn’t fight to win, anyway. His goal was seeing how long he could last, how much of a challenge he could make it. At least he knew all of Gaston’s moves.

Within minutes LeFou was hopelessly pinned – Gaston had wrapped arms and legs around so he couldn’t move, LeFou’s back against the body of the larger man beneath him, belly exposed. He felt like a particularly top-heavy tortoise.

He still had one recourse. He sunk his weight down, making it impossible to roll him over. If Gaston flipped them he’d squash the air out of him until he had to surrender – LeFou didn’t intend to give him that chance.

Gaston tightened his grip, causing LeFou’s arms to pull back uncomfortably in their sockets. LeFou wriggled a bit. But he’d had worse.

“Give up?” Gaston demanded, cheerily. He knew he was going to win eventually.

“Nope,” LeFou replied. Gaston might’ve liked when people simply gave things to him, but tonight LeFou felt like making him work for it.

He leaned in, getting comfortable as he could under the circumstances. The night was chilly – it was still early spring. But the fire was near and Gaston’s body was very warm.

So long as they were going to be stuck together like this awhile LeFou took advantage of the situation: basking in the feel of his friend so close, half-pretending the embrace they were wrapped in meant something else, eyes falling closed as he breathed in the musk of leather and earth and faded sweat. Picturing the broad expanse of skin beneath the layers of Gaston’s clothing.

His thoughts were not so much lustful as they were longing, daydreaming. For a moment, he was wrapped up in his emotions and happy.

Until a sudden vicious spike jarred him out of it. Gaston lost patience with waiting, and managed to maneuver around and lean in, sinking his teeth at the center of LeFou’s stomach. Hard enough to get through the fabric of LeFou’s shirt – hard enough, he could already tell by the feel, to draw blood.

LeFou yelped in pain and surprise. He’d no choice after that but to yield.

Afterward he tugged his shirt up, eyeing the massive bitemark staining the white of his skin black and blue.

“You know that’s technically cheating,” he had to say accusingly. You weren’t supposed to _bite_ in a wrestling match.

Gaston only shrugged, and grinned. He was searching in their packs for the wine again.

“I don’t see anyone here to enforce the rules, now do you, LeFou?” he replied brightly, in a reasonable tone. “You know I’ll do whatever it takes to win.”

“I’ll say,” LeFou murmured. He went back to looking at the bite.

It was going to take forever to heal, he guessed. It might even leave a scar.

In a strange detached way he realized – he was looking at it with fondness.

It was a mark, from Gaston, proof of his mouth upon LeFou’s body. It was probably the closest thing he was ever going to get to what he really wanted.

Or so he’d thought since then, for the longest time – until unexpectedly Gaston had gotten all confused the other day and started _kissing him_.

It wasn’t fair, LeFou thought morosely. It just wasn’t fair.

He understood the _why,_ once he got Gaston calm enough to talk things out. He knew there wasn’t anything personal by it. Gaston was going through…something, and LeFou happened to be the one there.

Because of course he was. He was always there. By now, one would think, he should’ve learned better.

He’d moved on from Gaston, or as much as he might ever be able to. He was getting over it, over him.

But then Gaston had come back from the dead and asked for his help and like a fool LeFou brought him into his home, volunteered to be his minder – and now, after years of _nothing_ , when he’d finally learned to want something else, something more, _now_ he knew what it felt like to have Gaston kiss him.

After spending most his life wondering, longing without ever thinking he’d get an answer, now he knew the feel of Gaston’s lips at his mouth. Hands gripping his body in place, breath softly exhaled against his cheek, the taste that lingered on his tongue.

And he just couldn’t _think_ about it. He couldn’t, because it meant nothing. Even if it turned out Gaston was capable of being interested in men – he’d never be interested in LeFou.

They’d been friends. Good friends, but only that. Now they were…he didn’t know. But certainly not lovers.

So LeFou refused to get sucked into thinking about it. No way. He wasn’t falling for that. He’d keep his mind on other things.

There was no time for this. He had far too much to do.

His first stop that day was the grocer. He put in an order for hopefully everything they needed, going down the list he’d made mentally, saying he’d pick it up tomorrow; paying for most in advance.

LeFou was one of few who often walked around Villeneuve with ready cash on him. He’d learned long ago that even gossipy villagers tended to shut up once coins flashed across their palms.

The grocer unfortunately was a boisterous fellow, and not so easily dissuaded. He’d noticed at once LeFou was putting in for rather a larger amount than usual, and so soon after his last visit to the shop.

“You loaded up quite a bit then, also. What happened to all of it already?”

LeFou hemmed and hawed through the best excuses he could make under the circumstances. He was getting ready for winter early, making many preserves, setting dried goods to store for later while they were still to be had relatively cheap…

“What about that cheese you bought? And the fresh herbs?”

“Why, both of those can keep for months, er, don’t they. I mean, if you store them proper.”

“What about that entire side of beef?”

“I was going to make stew. Take the extra around to my neighbors. But, um…it went bad. I put it on the wrong shelf in my pantry.”

He tried to give the most even, emotionless stare he could. Tried not to fidget.

The grocer shrugged, grunting dismissal. Maybe he didn’t believe LeFou, but he also didn’t care enough to keep poking.

“Whatever you say, Monsieur. Though it seems to me the simplest explanation is also the most likely. We all get carried away, sometimes.”

He laughed loud, in a manner evidently meant to be friendly teasing:

“You perhaps more than a little, one can plainly see.”

LeFou forced a thin smile, considering he wasn’t in the best of moods to begin with.

It was an old joke, one he tried to pretend didn’t annoy him. Somehow no matter how often it got made people always seemed to think they were clever: yes, he was fat. How very, very funny.

The truth was he didn’t even eat that much. This was just how he was built. Not that it surprised him nobody ever seemed to notice.

He could sit at the tavern and beside him Gaston would eat through enough to feed a small family as no one made nary a sound. But if after a long day of running over hill after hill, carrying Gaston’s kills and his guns, LeFou was starving and reached for more – someone would say it, to a chorus of sniggers _._

_“Oh look, of course_ LeFou _wants seconds!”_

The village was his home. But some days it was hard not to _hate_ everyone who lived there.

Shaking off that old touch of bitterness he stalked away from the grocer’s, set of his shoulders tight. He still had another stop to make, and he’d need a clear head for this.

Maybe a quarter of an hour later he stood inside a workshop. The doors were left open, so were the windows and shutters.

It made no difference in a blacksmith’s forge though. Even with the room halfway dug down into dirt and stone, even darkened into shadows, the only source to see by the light from outside and the fire itself – on a warm fall day, it was sweltering.

LeFou could feel the back of his shirt cling to his skin, sweat gathering across his forehead. He’d loosened his collar much as he could. His curls hung loosely into his eyes, weighted down by the heated air.

Tom had his own hair up in an improvised topknot. It couldn’t possibly provide that much relief. His shirtsleeves he still wore long and down, a heavy apron over his clothing. He’d scraps of cloth wrapped loosely around his off-hand to protect him from flying sparks as he worked.

As LeFou watched he finished turning a long metal rod in the embers, then struck hard on the end of it with a hammer until a piece the right size dropped off.

“So let me see if I follow,” Tom remarked, as he put down his hammer and picked up some tongs. “You’re telling me that you need to get your hands on some silver.”

“That’s right,” LeFou confirmed.

“Pure silver.”

“Preferably, yes.”

Finished eyeing the relatively small shape he’d made, Tom carried it to a bucket of water. “It doesn’t matter what it actually is, so long as it’s that.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want to buy it, you only want to borrow it.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want anyone to know that it’s for you.”

LeFou tried not to wince as Tom dropped the hot iron in, setting up a loud steam. “No. Secrecy here is…very important.”

Setting aside his tongs with a clang, Tom glanced at him. “And, you won’t tell _me_ why you want it, or what it’s for.”

“Yep.” LeFou tried not to smile too sheepishly. “That’s it in a nutshell.”

Grunting, Tom shuffled away from the fire, picking up a skin full of water. Helping himself to a long drink.

“Well,” he concluded, “that’s no small and a fair bewildering request you’re making, there.”

“I realize that,” LeFou replied. “And I don’t make it lightly. It’s just…well, we’re pretty close, you and I, aren’t we? And you were one of the only people in the village who I thought…”

He trailed off as Tom went back, using the tongs again to retrieve what he was forging out of the bucket, holding it up to look.

A big metal nail, LeFou guessed by the shape. The kind that might be used to keep a barn door on its hinges.

“My trade is in iron, LeFou. Occasionally a few other things. But certainly not silver.”

“I know. But, the tradesmen in this town, they all talk to each other. I figured the metalsmiths – well you’re probably closer to Monsieur Othman than I am, certainly.”

This probably wasn’t saying much. The silversmith never spoke a word to LeFou except in the old days, to complain and try driving them away from his shop – he said he hung mirrors outside to demonstrate his wares to passerby, _not_ so Gaston could fog them with his breath.

Frankly LeFou thought he should’ve known better. Anyone in Villeneuve should have, putting something shiny where Gaston could find it.

“So what do you say?” he asked Tom, trying not to sound like he was making a desperate gamble – which he was. “Do you have any idea at all, how I should proceed here?”

Tom paused. “Sure I do.”

“You…you do?” LeFou started. “Well, what?”

“Easy. Let me go ahead and get it for you.” Tom wiped hands off with a smirk. “You’re right, I do know Monsieur Othman better. We play cards from time to time.”

“Oh?” At first LeFou didn’t follow.

“A few years back he lost to me one night, and bad. At a rather inconvenient time for him too.”

Tom’s manner was a mixture of nonchalance and smugness.

“Business was slow and he was borrowing money to keep his wife from finding out. Acting like everything was normal. Carrying on with his usual lifestyle.”

Now LeFou understood. He nodded, slowly. “And if you called in his debt and he had to admit he couldn’t pay, he’d be publicly humiliated.”

“We had us a quiet chat just between us,” Tom drawled. “I agreed to wait until things were right with his accounts again until we settled. And in exchange…he owes me a favor.”

LeFou felt a strange mixture of surprised elation, relief, and guilt.

“Are you saying you’d be willing to give up that favor for me?”

Tom shrugged.

“I was probably never going to use it, anyway. What do I need with a favor from a silversmith? Nah, for me the best part was knowing that pompous prig owed me.” He crossed his arms. “Not like calling it in now really wipes that either. He’ll still know what happened, how I had him under my thumb. We _both_ will. And that’s what matters.”

“But you’ll use it to get me the silver,” LeFou stressed, having to check, not sure he believed his good luck.

“Like you said. We’re friends.” Tom reached for the water-skin again. “Though we haven’t seen each other around much, recently.”

“I know. That’s my fault. I’ve been…busy.” Relief overshadowing other emotions, LeFou gave a smile. “I can’t tell you how much I really appreciate this, Tom.”

“You say it’s important, and I can help you out one, why not.”

After a beat though the blacksmith looked at him again. He gave LeFou a crooked questioning grin, eyes squinted.

“You will tell me what this is about _eventually,_ though. Right?”

LeFou wasn’t sure how to answer. “Maybe.” He sighed. “I hope so.”

He’d no idea how the situation with Gaston was going to resolve. Right now that was simply too far ahead to even think about.

The good news though was that Tom was easygoing and didn’t think on things too much. At LeFou’s halfhearted assurances, he nodded.

“Come back after lunch,” he told the other. “I should have something for you by then.”

LeFou’s heart skipped a beat at the revelation the matter could be handled so soon. He certainly wasn’t about to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.

“I shouldn’t need it for too long. I can probably have it back to you within a few hours.”

“If that’s the case, then you can bring it to me tonight,” Tom suggested eagerly. “Meet me at the tavern. How long’s it been since we sat for a round?”

“Er, not that long…”

He hadn’t been able to visit in the evening since Gaston returned, though. To regular patrons like Tom and the others, that probably seemed a lifetime.

LeFou considered begging off. But thinking about it, he realized it was best not to do anything too suspicious. Maybe putting in a quick appearance at the tavern wasn’t such a bad idea, in case anyone else was wondering about him.

Frankly by this point he could use the change in scenery. And well – even if he’d never been anywhere near as close to Tom and Dick as he had to Gaston, they _were_ friends.

It was obvious the others cared about his wellbeing. He owed it to them to be social for a while.

“Sure, that sounds like a plan. You’ll give me the silver this afternoon, and I’ll return it tonight at the tavern. Just one drink, though.”

“Sure,” Tom winked, “one drink. Got it. Right.”

LeFou held back a groan.

He had a feeling tonight he was going to have to do some fast talking as the pub regulars tried to ply him with alcohol. It was worth it, though, he supposed.

Certainly compared at present with some of his _other_ relationships, it was a relatively small price to pay.

*

A few hours later LeFou walked through town again, moving swift but quiet. The small velvet pouch Tom gave him was tucked safely inside his vest.

He was trying not to think too hard about what might happen next, nodding distractedly in response to the villagers who called out in greeting as he passed.

Until a particularly exuberant, high-pitched voice demanded his attention.

“Hello, LeFou! Good afternoon!”

The potter’s son waved with his entire arm from where he sat astride the back of his father’s donkey. Keeping knees tucked close to the animal’s sides, his feet dangled freely in the air.

LeFou brightened in surprise.

“A good afternoon to you too, Chip!” Moving closer he returned the small boy’s smile. “And what are you doing up there?”

“Practicing,” he answered, sounding proud of himself. “Papa says once I prove I can keep my balance on Pierre, he’s going to borrow a horse from the stable and teach me how to ride.”

“I see.” LeFou patted the long-suffering donkey between the ears. “Well, it looks like you’re doing a great job so far.”

Monsieur Jean appeared from his stall, fixing his awning to better block out the midday sun. LeFou shot an understanding look at the man’s back.

Renting a horse from the village stable would be an expensive treat, even with his income and his wife’s salary. It was clear how much he cared for his little boy, that he would promise him that.

“But you’d better keep practicing, until your father says you’ve got it right,” LeFou told Chip earnestly, nodding as he held the child’s gaze. He backed off in the direction of the potter’s stall. “Nice talking to you!”

“You too, LeFou! Take care,” Chip brightly called.

Moving over to where the older man was still tightening ropes, LeFou deftly helped him tie off the last knot.

“Ah, thank you, Monsieur,” the potter remarked. He straightened up and adjusted his straw hat.

“Don’t mention it, it’s my pleasure. How are you today?”

“Very well, thank you. And yourself?” He paused, recalling something. “The missus wanted me to ask for her how you were doing, if I saw you.”

“Did she?”

“Yes, she said…something about you having _‘troubles at home’_.”

LeFou stared at him with anxious dismay.

But Monsieur Jean only blinked back, clueless, repeating what his wife said to him and not understanding any hidden meaning behind the message.

He shrugged. “Said you were likely to be having a rough time, and wanted to know if you were all right.”

The Prince must’ve told his servants at the castle at least part of what was going on, even if he’d told nobody else.

And Mrs. Potts’ first thought, upon hearing LeFou had found the man that threatened to kill them all and was now helping keep him hidden…was to worry about how LeFou himself was handling it.

He swallowed.

“Oh, that’s…it’s so nice of her to be concerned,” he managed to say, moved. “I’m doing fine, though. Under the circumstances.” He cleared his throat. “Can you tell her that, for me? That I’m fine? And she shouldn’t need to worry.”

“Of course,” Monsieur Jean said. “Though good luck getting her not to worry. Once Mrs. Potts makes up her mind to be concerned about someone, there’s nothing can be done.”

He noted this almost cheerily; like it pleased or amused him, his wife’s universal motherly nature.

It was obvious how fond they were of each other. A lot of the couples reunited after the enchantment seemed to be that way. Another reason to be glad for everyone’s sake the curse was broken, perhaps.

LeFou felt a little sideways twist in his chest, whenever he saw these romantic people together. A lot of them were his friends and neighbors, decent folks, and he was happy for them on principle.

Still it was difficult not to feel the tiniest bit jealous.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Monsieur Jean went on, abruptly. “I believe we’ve found your goat.”

“You have?” LeFou exclaimed. He’d spread word around that Maisie had gone missing, hoping she hadn’t wandered far from Villeneuve. “Where was she?”

“She turned up in Pierre’s stable, eating some of his hay. Dark brown with long ears, a white spot on one of them?”

“Yes, that’s her, absolutely. Thank you so much, Monsieur Jean. I’ve been worried.”

“It’s no trouble. She was in need of a milking, you should know – Mrs. Potts took care of it. Set it aside to make some cheese. You can have it if-”

“Oh no, that’s really not necessary,” LeFou protested. “Consider it payment for finding her for me. Not to mention the hay she ate.” He glanced at Pierre, who brayed softly. “Thank you, again.”

The potter gave some rope to make a lead, and LeFou led the unrepentant goat back through the village toward home.

The journey went well enough until they got to the stable. It seemed soon as they drew nearer the house itself Maisie became uncomfortable. She started bleating and struggling, twisting neck back and forth, digging in her little hooves.

“No, no, enough of that, you.” Dragging his end of the rope towards Camarade’s stall, LeFou tied it off tight as he could. “I know you’re upset but there’s nothing to fuss over. Really. I promise.”

He glanced towards the house and grimaced. _Nothing for_ you _to worry about, anyway_ , he added silently.

“I’ll finish dealing with you later,” he told the goat, as if she could possibly understand, walking away.

It seemed far darker inside than it’d been out in the bright afternoon. LeFou glanced around as he moved through the rooms.

“Gaston? Are you here?”

“Where else would I possibly be?”

In response to LeFou calling his name, the taller man stood in the doorway to the bedroom, leaning back against the frame. His head was hanging slightly. He fixed LeFou with an empty look.

“Like you haven’t wandered off from time to time,” LeFou groused, without much energy.

Reaching into his pocket he pulled out the pouch and dumped its contents into his hand – a long length of thin silver chain. It probably was destined for a future as some fine lady’s necklace, once it was trimmed down and fixed with a pendent and other decoration.

Gaston looked at what he held. “What is that?”

“It’s silver. Pure silver, or close as I could get. Turns out by itself real silver is actually very soft, so you have to – that’s really not important right now,” he cut off, annoyed with himself. “Don’t ask how I got it either. It’s kind of a long story.”

“I don’t care where you got it,” Gaston said bluntly, still looking at LeFou’s hand. “Why do you have it?”

“Well, we need to test whether or not what they say about _loup-garou_ and silver is true.”

Gaston raised eyes to meet his.

“Why’s it so important to you, that you know how to kill a werewolf?” he demanded.

“Oh now, _stop_.” LeFou was far more annoyed than he was stricken. The last thing he was interested in right then was coddling Gaston’s occasional flare for melodrama. “That’s not what it is. I’m trying to be practical, here. You don’t think it’s important to know for your own sake if you have a weakness to something?”

In response to the pointed inquiry Gaston merely looked away and grunted. But it seemed he was willing to stop being paranoid about LeFou’s reasoning.

He held out his right hand. “Fine, then. Give it over.”

“Wait.” LeFou hesitated, watching Gaston’s expression with some concern. “We should be careful.”

He moved in so they were standing before one another, a loop of the chain dangling from his hand. Gaston still had his own hand outstretched, palm ready and waiting beneath LeFou’s.

The air of expectant tension seemed almost comical – almost.

Maybe nothing would happen, LeFou thought. Maybe they were worried for nothing, maybe…

He let the chain start to fall from his grip. The instant it struck Gaston’s skin he shied back, hissing sharp in pain.

LeFou quickly snatched it up again, dismayed.

“Let me see it.” He tugged at Gaston, getting his fingers to uncurl. There was a thin red welt starting to rise where the silver had touched him. “It looks like you were _burned_.”

“It felt like it, too. Like it was hot,” Gaston muttered.

LeFou started coiling the chain up, intending to put it away.

“Wait, no.” Gaston reached out. “Let me try again. I wasn’t ready. Maybe it won’t be so bad if I’m better prepared.”

LeFou had his doubts, but he knew Gaston was more than capable of pushing through injury and pain on sheer determination. If he really wanted to try…

He drew a breath and readied himself. He glanced to meet Gaston’s eyes and the other man nodded.

“Ready?” LeFou wasn’t sure if he was talking to himself or not. “All right. Here goes.”

This time Gaston didn’t yank back at first. He even wrapped a few knuckles around, trying to hold on.

But he was gritting his teeth, and within moments he faltered. Pulling away again, shaking his head.

“No, no, I can’t,” he wheezed. “It hurts too much. It doesn’t only feel like fire, it feels like…venom.”

Spreading fingers he revealed a palm turned an angry red, dotted with thin blisters.

If that broke through the skin, LeFou thought, if it got into his blood or struck something deeper inside his body, something important, he could easily see how a small amount of silver might kill him.

It might not be instantly fatal but it’d certainly be a grievous injury. And it would cause agony.

He pulled out the pouch Tom had given him and tucked the chain inside, shoving it back into his pocket.

Gaston was looking down at his hand. “This isn’t healing. Normally something superficial, like a cut…it knits right before my eyes, now.”

He’d said it was true what they claimed about _loup-garou’s_ healing abilities, LeFou remembered. But then again, that Gaston was even still alive was testament to that.

“Maybe it doesn’t work with injuries from silver,” LeFou suggested. Another good thing to know.

“Maybe.” Gaston’s voice was detached. He kept staring at his injured palm, expression distant.

“I have to get this back where it came from.” LeFou touched the outside of his vest over where the silver was. “Knowing what we do now, it’d make me nervous even having it around…but hey, it’s not that bad,” he tried, watching Gaston’s face carefully. He kept his voice light as he could. “You’ll just have to be careful from now on if you handle money. You never wear silver, anyway. You’ve always said you look better in gold.”

It suited his complexion better, his coloring. And it went with the vibrant colors it seemed he naturally preferred.

“Oh – right.” Gaston sounded like he was barely listening. That expression of his hadn’t gone away.

LeFou frowned, leaning forward slightly. He studied the other while Gaston wasn’t paying attention to him.

It was clear he’d had a rough night, possibly not sleeping at all. His skin was greasy and there were shadowed smudges beneath his eyes. More tellingly, he was wearing the same clothes from yesterday. He hadn’t styled his hair, merely tying it back, leaving loose strands to hang around his face.

LeFou had thought the business with the silver might be upsetting, a form of proof Gaston really had become something supernatural. But that hardly seemed to be concerning him.

In fact it seemed something else was on his mind, to where he was barely paying attention to the silver at all.

As it sunk in what he was seeing, LeFou smiled in a biting way.

“All that’s going on right now, everything you could be thinking about – you’re still stuck on that kiss. Aren’t you?” he demanded knowingly, with a hint of disgust.

“The kiss itself isn’t the problem.” Gaston’s response was hoarse. “It’s what it signifies.”

“Right. Yeah, of course. _Right_ ,” LeFou voice rose in indignation, “of course it’s fine for anyone else. It’s all right for me to be that way, it’s not like it’s a problem. But for you? Oh, now _that’s_ another story!”

He gestured animatedly in anger, words growing increasingly snide.

“Gaston the Hunter, Gaston the Victorious! Gaston, the great war hero, the savior of Villeneuve; the man just about everyone for miles around looks up to, both literally and figuratively. It couldn’t be _you!_ It can’t possibly! That would be unacceptable!”

Gaston had been standing in profile. As LeFou had gone on however, and he’d been stuck listening, first his eyes then the rest of his head moved to look the other’s way.

“What do you want me to say?” he asked of LeFou, flatly.

He wasn’t interested in arguing, that much was obvious. He’d run out of answers, uninterested in upsetting him further but also unwilling to lie.

His eyes were empty. He was completely exhausted.

LeFou stared at him, taking in that look in his eyes, the look on his face, the sheer amount of nothing in his voice. He gave up.

“I’ll be going out in a little while,” LeFou snapped. “Don’t wait up for me.”

He marched off, away through the rooms of his house. His temple was throbbing with how irate he was.

He was so sick of having to deal with Gaston’s moods, Gaston’s problems. Helping him with so much, when he’d never helped LeFou with a single important thing himself.

As he kept moving he ended up in the spare room, the place he’d stored so many of Gaston’s belongings – and now, ironically, since Gaston was hogging his bedroom, where more than a few of his own things wound up as well.

His clothes were soaked with sweat and rumpled from the day’s activities, dust from the streets clinging to his stockings and trousers. If he was going to visit the tavern he wanted to change into something fresh.

LeFou undressed and redressed hurriedly, running a comb through his hair, every motion filled with the misplaced energy of his emotional state.

As he threw the comb down though, and it clattered onto a side table, he glanced over at the room he stood in. For a moment, time warped and he found himself picturing the way it used to be – when it was his tiny bedroom, those years he grew up in this house while his aunt was still alive.

He remembered with sudden clarity lying there in the dark, curled up in his cot on his side. Struggling to cry silently so his aunt and cousins wouldn’t hear him.

He remembered feeling so alone, like everything was wrong, wishing he had someone to talk to. Somebody, anybody, who could give him answers to the questions he didn’t even know how to ask.

LeFou closed his eyes and exhaled heavily, sighing. As trying as it felt to him, he realized – he knew this pain. This struggle.

And no one should have to go through it alone, the way he did. No matter who.

He turned around and went back into the bedroom.

Gaston was sitting on the bed, opposite the door. He faced as if he stared out the window, though if he was he probably couldn’t see very much since the curtains were drawn. Everything was cast into extremes of light and shadow. One of the blankets was draped around his shoulders like he was cold.

**“** Gaston?” LeFou called, gingerly, but got no response. “Gaston? Hey, listen to me.”

The other still didn’t move, let alone turn to face him. LeFou figured he had to have heard him, so he gathered his voice and went on.

“Look, I don’t know anything about magic or curses. I don’t know anything about what it’s like, being a werewolf. But there’s something I do know about, and it’s this. What I think that you’re going through right now on top of everything else.”

He paused, making his words come evenly as they could. Trying to project understanding and confidence.

“I’m going to tell you what I wish there’d been somebody to tell me all those years ago,” LeFou said. “There is nothing _wrong_ with you. That is not what this means. You are not defective, or lesser because of it. You are not broken, or weak, or sick.”

He wasn’t sure if he was glad or not Gaston still gave no reaction. He wished for a sign he was listening, but maybe it was better he could continue without interruption.

“You haven’t lost anything, by realizing this about yourself. Nothing has been taken away. This doesn’t change anything about you, it’s just another part of who you are already. Like the color of your eyes or how tall you are. It’s not a good thing, it’s not a bad thing, it just is.” His tone grew slightly plaintive.

“And it’s all right if you’re not…happy about that. You don’t have to be. It’s all right if you’re afraid. Or worried. It’s all right if you wish it weren’t so, that you didn’t have to be this way. I know I did.”

At his sides LeFou’s fingers curled, hands forming loose fists, and his gaze dropped to the floor.

“But, here’s something important that I figured out a long time ago. You can’t really control what other people are going to feel about you. But you can control how you feel about yourself.” He looked up again. “So why be miserable if you don’t have to be? Why hate yourself for something you never chose? That’s not going to make you happier, and it won’t make people any more accepting. I don’t think there’s really much point.”

He wished he’d something more profound to end on. Something eloquent.

Truth was though he’d run out of things to say. At least, he thought he’d gotten to everything important.

He was one the verge of shrugging, and maybe walking away, when slowly Gaston turned around.

He looked at LeFou over his shoulder. The divided light from the window made his face look even more haggard than it was.

“When did you first realize it?”

“What?”

Gaston cleared his throat. “When did you first realize it, about yourself?”

LeFou felt a clench of anxiety, suddenly regretting he’d said anything at all. “Now, wait, I don’t think-”

“No,” Gaston insisted, in a way that seemed strangely earnest. “You complained before that we never talked about this, no matter what I might’ve suspected. So let’s talk about it now. When did you first realize that you…that you were attracted to men, instead of women?”

He shifted from one foot to another uneasily. “I’ve known it pretty much all along.” He sighed. “I guess I realized at the same time you and the others were first getting interested in girls. I mean, the way you’d talk about it, the way you’d look at them…you’d get so _excited_. And I never felt that. I never understood.”

He smiled in a forlorn way.

“First I pretended to feel the same, just to fit in. Then I tried to _make_ myself feel it, once I started getting worried why I wasn’t…why nothing seemed to…” He trailed off. “Then, finally, I got what I was actually interested in was…other boys.”

_‘Was you’_ , he added mentally.

Like he could say that aloud. He had a bad feeling Gaston, if he was thinking the right way, would probably guess it regardless.

Gaston’s gaze had shifted sideways and he did appear to be thinking heavily. His expression was conflicted, frowning hard. But if his thoughts drifted over LeFou’s old affection for him he didn’t say anything.

“That was it, though? You were sure? You never tried-”

“Gaston,” LeFou couldn’t help if he sounded impatient, “did you need to try anything with a girl, the first time you knew you wanted to? Or did you figure that out on your own?”

Gaston’s mouth quickly opened and closed, wordlessly conceding his point.

“Anyway,” glancing down LeFou fiddled with a loose button on his shirt, “maybe I could force myself if I had to. That’s how some like me have families, I guess. I’d never want to do that though. I couldn’t pretend. And I wouldn’t really enjoy it. Not like I have with…”

He fell silent yet again, feeling cheeks pinken slightly at what he’d basically just confessed.

Gaston looked as discomfited by the revelation as he was – not to mention baffled. “Whenever did you manage to do that?” he exclaimed.

LeFou wasn’t sure whether he should laugh. “You thought I was still a virgin,” he accused, blunt.

“Well,” Gaston stammered, “it’s not as if – I’ve known you all our lives, I can’t imagine when-!”

“The same time and place as you?” LeFou’s eyebrows rose. “The war? There were plenty of young men hanging close together, remember. Just as you were visiting brothels for the first time and ‘comforting’ widows, the rest of us had to pass the time somehow too.”

“There were others like you around us, back then?”

Gaston was completely floored, and LeFou did have to laugh this time.

“Sure. You sort of…well, you learn to see it, when you know what you’re looking for. I guess the signs are invisible when it’s not something that occurs to one regularly.”

He almost pointed out there was a chance Gaston might start noticing some of these things now, too. But he restrained himself. That probably would be too overwhelming for him to think about right away.

LeFou went on, “And, you know how sometimes when we visit one of the bigger towns, when you were there to, ah, get entertained? Do you think I always waited for you back at the inn, or what?”

“I thought…I don’t know what I thought,” Gaston admitted. “I know what I was up to, that’s all that mattered. Why, what were you doing?”

LeFou gave him a meaningful look.

Gaston’s jaw went slack, color draining from his face. _“LeFou!”_

“Oh, what?” He snorted. “While you were paying for your company, I’m supposed to feel shame I was doing the same thing?”

“B-but that’s, that’s different, it…” His voice lowered to an intense whisper, as if actually worried someone might overhear them. “They’ve places like that where you can pay for _male_ companionship?”

“They’re still called prostitutes whether they’re men or women, Gaston. I mean, there are a few other words besides that, sure-” He shook his head. “The point is, yes, they exist. And no, while I didn’t go nearly as often as you do-”

“I don’t go that – I don’t know that I like what you’re implying,” Gaston determined, his eyes narrowed.

LeFou coughed delicately, because this was a subject he was not going to debate the finer points of.

“The answer is yes, that I have…experience. Since apparently you wanted to know.”

“Oh.” Gaston looked to the floor, eyes wide, not saying anything a moment as that sunk in.

Which was fine by LeFou. He’d never pictured they’d ever have this type of conversation, really, about his personal life.

When Gaston spoke again, LeFou didn’t think it his imagination he seemed more timid this time.

“But you’ve known for that long.”

“Yes,” LeFou confirmed.

“Then why…” He struggled a moment. “Why is this only happening to me _now?_ ”

“You know, um, I actually was thinking about that,” LeFou told him. He rubbed the back of his head. “And I have a theory. You keep saying you feel like you’re always the wolf, almost. Right? Like you’re always a little bit the animal now?”

“Right.” Gaston frowned again, uncomfortable.

“Well animals aren’t like people, are they. They don’t worry about things like society and rules and what others might think. They don’t lie to themselves or worry about appearances.” LeFou smiled oddly. “They just want what they want.”

Gaston squinted. “You think that becoming _loup-garou_ made me-”

“Not _made_ ,” LeFou was quick to cut him off, emphasizing. “I don’t think the curse changed that about you. More like it made it possible for you to realize something you never had before. Because you were seeing things from a different perspective.”

Gaston was dubious, to say the least. “That sounds both preposterous and overly complicated.”

“Do you have any better ideas?”

“No, but…”

“Then who cares why, anyway?” LeFou shrugged. “In any case it’s the way things are now. I’ll bet you never even thought about it before, did you.”

“Of course not.”

“Because you knew you liked girls.”

“Exactly.”

“But now you know it’s possible to like both,” he reminded him.

Gaston’s face fell again. “Yes,” he said, with far less confidence.

LeFou watched him a moment. Despite all that’d happened between them, he found he was feeling mostly sympathy.

He knew this hadn’t been an easy thing to come to terms with. It had to be doubly so for Gaston, with the idea he already had of himself.

Triply so, perhaps, with everything else going on.

“Look, just think about what I said, all right?” he offered. “At the beginning. And, give it some time. I promise you’ll feel better if you wait on it.”

“Right.” Gaston’s voice was quiet again.

He didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular, and it was hard to tell if he’d really heard him.

“I’ll be back later tonight. If I’m not too tired…we can talk again, if you want.”

“I might go for a walk, while you’re out,” Gaston said distractedly.

LeFou thought about saying he shouldn’t, reminding him of the many reasons that wasn’t a good idea – he kept silent.

Gaston might’ve been childish and impulsive, but he wasn’t literally _a child_. And he’d been the right kind of careful, so far. He could make up his own mind as to the risks.

“Be careful if you do,” he couldn’t resist saying.

Gaston merely nodded, gaze still unfixed.

When LeFou left he found he wasn’t certain if he thought he’d made things better, by anything he’d said.

But at least, he determined, he didn’t feel he had made it any worse.

*

The sun had barely set when he got to the tavern. For an evening crowd, it was quiet. None of the farmers would’ve made it in yet, they were probably still finishing up in their fields.

The baker was at his usual table by the fire, talking loudly with the Headmaster and the barber. Peg was arguing with a patron at the bar over whether the meat she was serving was fresh. Old Henri was dozing in the corner, everyone giving him a wide berth. Two barmaids took turns slowly circling the room while a third one swept the floor by the ale kegs and Tancred cleaned some glasses.

He was too early, LeFou realized with some vexation. There was no sign of Tom or Dick. But many of the regulars probably wouldn’t be in for hours – the tradesmen and professionals had to shut down their shops, the married men would have dinner at home while the unmarried ones could take long as they liked before going out.

But he knew that. He’d always known that. It was the ebb and flow of Villeneuve, second nature to anyone who’d lived there their whole lives. He felt stupid at once he hadn’t thought of it.

Was that how distracted he’d gotten by this business with Gaston, LeFou thought: he’d forgotten for the first time how the village worked?

Maybe it was a good thing he’d been dragged out, after all. It would clear his head.

He took a seat at a small round table away from the fire, ordered a drink and tried not to look toward the ceiling. About half of the trophies Gaston had “generously donated” over the years were missing, and without that triptych of his war victories the upper part of the wall looked awfully bare.

LeFou wondered if it was his own bias that made him think it something of a shame – the tavern seemed deprived of character, now, a sort of half-formed version of itself.

Would the years go by and he’d change his mind, grow used to it? Eventually perhaps they’d get around to replacing the decorations with something else. Maybe that would make it easier.

He tried not to, but wound up glancing at where he and Gaston had usually sat.

Jaspar was lounging in the armchair that’d been the hunter’s favorite, feet up on a nearby table, surrounded by three of his friends – younger men all of them, just starting out; unmarried, probably still living with their mothers.

They were laughing over some shared story, each holding a mug of ale. When one of the barmaids passed they gestured for her to come over and keep them company, holding up coins in promise.

LeFou looked away.

He nursed his drink and tried not to listen too closely to the murmur of others in the room talking. He was in no mood to eavesdrop on village gossip. He let it fade to a background hum.

He about jumped out of his skin when someone lightly touched him on the shoulder.

“Easy there, stranger! I wasn’t trying to startle you.”

LeFou spilled part of his drink as he set it down quickly, wiping upper lip with his sleeve to rid himself of where he feared beer had gotten in his mustache.

“Stanley!” he exclaimed in surprise.

The other man gave a slow, encouraging smile. He blinked once in a way that made it impossible not to notice what thick eyelashes he had.

“I’m sorry,” he said more gently, modest.

“No, no, it’s fine,” LeFou reassured him. “It’s not your fault. I was just off in my head.”

“I noticed.” Stanley pulled out a chair and sat down – not across to him, not next to him either. Somewhere in-between. He rested an elbow on the table and perched cheek in hand as he gave LeFou undivided attention. “Thinking deep thoughts?”

“Um, not really.” LeFou found he’d a hard time remembering _what_ he’d been thinking. “How have you been?”

“ _Comme ci comme ça.”_ Stanley pulled a slight face. “My useless cousins say it’s been too hot to work so they begged me to finish Madame Cecile’s new dress for them. It should’ve just been pattern piecework, the lazy brats. But I got a little creative with the ribbons. She adored it.”

“That’s good!”

“Auntie wouldn’t let me take credit for it,” Stanley elaborated, glum.

“And, that’s bad,” LeFou said sympathetically. “I have to say I don’t know what her problem is. If she doesn’t want you to have anything to do with fashion, then why does she let you work in her shop?”

“When Aunt Mayette first took me in she figured I could help with heavy lifting, sweeping up, that sort of thing,” he explained. “I don’t think she ever realized I’d actually _like_ being around so many dresses. She says if a man wants to sew he should be a tailor.”

His disgruntled look made it clear how he felt about that idea, so LeFou didn’t need to ask. He drank his drink to distract himself from the fact he really didn’t know what to say.

“You hate men’s fashion that much, huh?” he joked lamely.

“I don’t hate it. I adore _all_ fashion, really. But women’s dress is just so…so much more freeing. More _fun._ ” He straightened up and leaned towards LeFou eagerly. “Have you ever seen any of the fashion drawings they circulate from Paris? What they do at the height of _la mode?_ They’re encouraged to experiment, be outrageous. They try to shock each other on purpose, at the court at Versailles.”

“That probably wouldn’t work so well, here.” LeFou didn’t have much opinion on the subject, or knowledge at that.

He was perhaps better informed about some aspects of fashion than the average male villager, with a slightly better eye. But not by much.

It didn’t matter, though, that he couldn’t fully understand everything Stanley was talking about. He found he enjoyed listening to him say it, captivated by his enthusiasm.

Though they weren’t physically touching one another Stanley had drifted in close enough he had a heightened awareness of the other’s presence, the energy radiating off his body.

Stanley was wearing cologne – or possibly perfume. Whatever it was, LeFou thought it smelled nice.

“No. It wouldn’t,” Stanley went on, agreeing. “That’s why I think I’d like it much better there than here.”

LeFou had half-raised his beer for another swallow, but he froze. “Wait. Are you…are you actually thinking of moving?”

It was almost a taboo subject. Even those who left for practical reasons, seeking work or better land, they tended to do so very quietly. In a small town where people put down roots that lasted for generations moving away registered as a form of betrayal.

Stanley seemed aware of this. He shifted in discomfort. “I don’t know. Maybe. Villeneuve is so…small. And Paris, even the idea of it, it seems so…”

He trailed off with a wistful, almost smitten sigh: encompassing in the indescribable what the thought of Paris meant to him.

“Big,” LeFou finished anyway. His tone was more practical, and uncertain. “And, crowded. And full of strangers. And filthy, in ways we can never get around here. I’ve been to bigger cities, Stanley – I’ve seen what happens in them.”

Paris, he imagined, would be more of the same – would maybe be even worse.

“But to live so close to the King,” Stanley argued, not giving up so easily. “To be able to go about your business with no one paying attention to you or caring. To go to masquerade balls, and the opera, and see artists. To go walking at night along the river-”

“The river probably stinks,” LeFou stated. “And I wouldn’t go at night, that sounds like a terrible idea. You’d get mugged.”

Stanley pouted. “You’re not much of a romantic, LeFou, are you?” he asked teasingly.

“I…can be,” he chuckled. “About certain things.”

They’d a moment of companionable silence. Smiling, LeFou looked down to realize their arms were resting beside each other on the table. Close enough if they wanted to, they could hold hands.

“Anyway,” Stanley admitted, going on, “I don’t know that I’m so convinced about moving. It’s just I get so frustrated sometimes. Auntie’s not getting any younger. Soon she’s going to have to step back and let someone else start running more of the shop. Her eyes are going a little bad, and she gets tired at the end of the day after standing so much on her feet. I keep hoping she’d leave the shop to me but-”

“You don’t think she’s going to.”

“At this rate, no. She’s tried teaching my cousins to do the accounts! Can you imagine? I mean, _maybe_ Eloise could handle it if she had to, but Elise or Eliana?” Stanley huffed. “All the three of them really want is to get married, preferably to someone rich and handsome. They don’t want to be full-time seamstresses. They certainly don’t want to design gowns or hats either; they’re too busy dressing themselves.”

“I’m so sorry.” LeFou had set his beer down, forgotten, leaning forward as he looked closer at Stanley. “What’re you going to do, though, if she won’t see reason and let you have what you want?”

“Well what I’d really like is to open a shop of my own, if I could.”

“You’d compete against your own family?”

“It wouldn’t be so bad. There’s more ladies in Villeneuve than you realize. Some of them would probably keep going to Auntie, because they prefer things to be more traditional. And the ones hungry for more fashion could come to me.” Stanley grinned, then his face fell. “But a new dress shop, even a small one, that takes…” He rubbed his fingers together.

“Right.” Stanley wasn’t paid very much, far as LeFou could tell. His arrangement with his aunt seemed mostly for room and board. “You realize that moving to Paris, that would be expensive too.”

“I know, but I could start over completely in Paris. I could apprentice myself to a designer maybe. A real _modiste_. There’s something appealing about it, the idea of running away.” He paused, then confessed softly, “I haven’t told anyone else about it, LeFou. This is just between us.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t…I’ll never tell,” LeFou rushed to say. “I promise. But – all the way to Paris…” He stopped.

The idea bothered him, he realized. Paris was so far away.

People who left Villeneuve pretty much never came back. Travelling was difficult, and costly. If someone moved to a distance you’d probably never see them again in a lifetime.

LeFou’s five cousins had left, and that was that. It’d been years, he hadn’t seen them since. Not all them even made it back for their mother’s funeral.

“I probably wouldn’t want to go so much,” Stanley said, voice very low now, “if I had anything to keep me here.”

LeFou felt a squeeze. He glanced down, dumbly, discovering at some point his hand had drifted atop Stanley’s and the other man was holding his fingertips.

When did that happen, he wondered.

And then he felt warmth rushing to his head as he thought of what Stanley said earlier, about him not being romantic.

“Stanley?” He cleared his throat.

“Mhmm?” the other responded, gaze fixed closely on LeFou’s face.

“That offer you made to me, that I still haven’t taken you up on,” he asked, careful. “You weren’t counting this as-?”

“Oh! Oh no, no, not at all.” Stanley laughed a bit. “I would want that to be preplanned. Something special. And I’d be wearing something much nicer.”

“Oh, good,” LeFou breathed out, relieved. “Not that this isn’t nice, I just…feel the same. I’m only here to meet Tom, I need to return something I borrowed to him. After that I’m leaving.”

“I understand.”

“I only have time for one drink.”

“Of course.”

“Maybe two.” LeFou swallowed. He really didn’t intend to stay, have time to stay. But looking at Stanley some of his resolve was failing. “But I-I’m only killing time, until Tom, and probably Dick, gets here.”

“Then I might as well keep you company, until our friends arrive,” Stanley offered reasonably.

“Yes!” He coughed. “Yes, of course. There’s nothing wrong with that. Not that there would be, anything wrong with that. I mean, I enjoy your company.”

“And I yours,” Stanley said evenly. He gave LeFou’s hand one last press, before he discretely withdrew his.

LeFou regretted it. Even though it made sense.

They shouldn’t be sitting there, holding hands, if he couldn’t commit to this being an actual date. Which he couldn’t. Not yet.

He glanced over and realized Stanley had been sitting there the entire time without any glass or mug in front of him.

“Let me buy you a beer?” LeFou offered. It was the least he could do. For the company.

*

He would never admit it out loud. He was barely capable of admitting it even privately to his own self.

But Gaston had come to realize, at some point, he probably wouldn’t be in the position he was now if only he’d listened to LeFou.

LeFou hadn’t wanted to abandon Maurice in the woods. LeFou tried talking him out of attacking the castle, every step of the way. LeFou had even pointed out a few times all the reasons that Belle wasn’t _right_ for Gaston, that she didn’t deserve him.

He’d been stubborn then. He hadn’t listened. But he should have. He could see that now, with the clarity of hindsight.

So this time, when LeFou offered advice – Gaston listened. He listened attentively to every word.

He turned over what LeFou had said to him carefully in his mind. And it didn’t take him long to realize something.

His friend was absolutely right.

In the quiet of the cottage left long after the wake of LeFou’s exit, Gaston had splashed cold water on his face, combed out his hair, and put on a clean shirt and one of his best outfits, the brilliant scarlet waistcoat lined on the inside with gold.

He stood before the mirror, turning side to side as he admired himself. He met his reflection’s eyes and gave his most charming smile.

He didn’t look any different. He didn’t _feel_ any different. Nothing about him of importance changed, clearly.

He was still strong and swift and physically flawless. So what if his interests had…broadened, somewhat? In no way he could discern outwardly was he any less of a man than the day before.

He hadn’t worried becoming _loup-garou_ changed who he was, now had he. Why should he be worried about this?

Holding his own steely gaze in the mirror, Gaston pursed his lips and stuck out his chin. He inhaled slowly as he stood to his full height, basking in the magnificent figure he cut.

Of course, there were still other things to worry about. But he didn’t feel like thinking about them. So he didn’t.

He only really had room for one problem in his thoughts at a time. Tonight he was too busy celebrating that what’d been bothering him wasn’t much of a problem after all.

He put on his coat and tricorn hat – despite the heated days it’d been getting chilly once the sun went down, the later they got into September. After a minor note of consideration, he grabbed that bottle of _eau-de-vie_ LeFou mentioned before. He was in a good mood; maybe he couldn’t go to the tavern, but he felt like enjoying himself.

It was dark out but he could see clearly. His night-vision improved tremendously since he’d received the bite. He got back onto the rooftops of Villeneuve without trouble – his injured palm bandaged with cloth, hardly hampering him at all.

He strolled around up there, thoughts wandering idly, careless as he pleased.

He kept revisiting the matter: this business of finding men attractive. As LeFou had guessed, he’d never thought of it before. He hadn’t reason to suppose it worth any consideration.

Now, well – he thought about it.

It was a bit like approaching a vessel of uncomfortably hot water. Stick a hand in part of the way, hold it under, until one couldn’t stand it anymore. Then withdraw, wait to recover, and then try again.

He thought about liking men, what features in others he’d always noticed. Allowing the fixation to linger, to openly transform into what could only be called desire. Then as he became self-conscious and anxious, starting to become a little too aware of himself, he retreated and stopped thinking about it.

Then, soon as he calmed down, he returned to poking at the thoughts again.

He liked the way men smelled, he realized. Raw and real. He liked how big their hands were. He liked that in his experience men simply said what they meant – with girls it was all riddles and frivolity. He liked the way stubble on a man could set off the softness of his lips, the curve of his chin. Ladies tried to keep their skin white like canvasses but men often had hair all across their bodies, and freckles, scars; marks of character.

He’d never been prone to indecision. His feelings were passionate ones, his opinions strong and certain. Once he’d made up his mind about something, well, that was it. It was extremely hard for him to _change_ his mind: when he did it was all or nothing.

Now he’d decided he was going to permit this he embraced it, casting aside apprehension or doubt.

He’d barely made one loop around the length of the village before he’d accepted it completely. No longer bothered when he immersed in the desirous thoughts.

It was actually rather…intriguing.

He’d been fixated on girls for years. He’d had so many flirtations and conquests. He’d hardly grown _bored_ with them, but there were only so many options after a point. Now he’d something entirely new to explore.

Distractedly he pulled the bottle from his coat pocket, removing the cork with his teeth as he mused.

He wasn’t terribly picky when it came to women, admittedly. So long as they could be somehow described as “pretty” and especially if they were receptive to his charms, then there was usually something there to amuse him. But there were some traits he wanted over others.

He liked them petite of stature, to better set off his own intimidating size. He’d a preference for darker hair. And he definitely liked a fuller figure – but then, most men would agree with wanting _that_.

But women were women, and men were men. The difference was clear. So, what did he like in men?

The most obvious answer, he thought as he knocked back a swig of alcohol, was that he’d want somebody like himself. A man who was strong and glorious, long-limbed and muscular. Athletic, confident, with broad shoulders and a chiseled jaw.

And the idea was appealing certainly but not…perfect. He did admire muscles and a commanding air and a strong profile in other men, it was true. He always had.

But when encountering others of a similar type all he could do was compare them to himself. And, of course, find them somehow wanting. It was hard to measure up when he set his flawless self as the standard.

He took another slow drink as he kept thinking.

The strange thing was, while he tried freely examining what it was about men he’d find preferable…somehow or another it seemed he kept wandering back to LeFou.

At first he thought it was because this started with that kiss. Of course LeFou would be tangled up with any exploration of his attraction towards men, because of that. It’d begun with an interaction with him.

Or maybe it was because when he thought of men being with other men, he thought of LeFou. Despite how much he’d compartmentalized that detail about his friend away while it made him uncomfortable, he was the only example of somebody with that inclination Gaston knew very well.

Neither of those explanations, though, seemed to cover what was happening inside his head. This curious circular loop.

He was on the verge of lifting the bottle to his lips for a third drink when he paused. Could it be…?

LeFou was nothing like him, physically. They were basically opposites. But given nobody like himself could be completely satisfactory, maybe that was for the best.

Perhaps what was pleasing lay in an entirely different direction.

LeFou was sturdy as a rock but soft, warm to hold. Their height difference meant Gaston could lean against him, rest a head atop his without even trying. He was gentle in a way Gaston was not, yet decidedly masculine – he’d good strong hands and the kind of swarthy complexion that meant he could shave in the morning and be sporting part of a beard by nightfall.

He’d beautiful hair, well-formed legs, a voice like an angel. His smile was undeniably charming, those gaps in his crooked teeth.

He hadn’t been jesting, those times he wondered aloud why LeFou was still single – he honestly thought he was one of the better-looking men in the whole village.

It’d just never occurred to him that he might mean _for him_.

But the more Gaston thought about it, the more struck he was by how much sense it made.

He stoppered the _eau-de-vie_ and put it away again. He felt lightheaded enough in a way that’d nothing to do with drink. And he wanted to process this, fully.

Possibly the most arresting thing of all though was that he already _cared_ about LeFou – he’d never been attracted to someone he cared about for independent reasons before.

But this was his friend; they spent time together, they enjoyed each other’s company. He made Gaston laugh. They could talk for hours. They were comfortable around one another.

Being interested in a man, he realized with delight, meant they could actually _do_ things together. They could go hunting. They could have a conversation about something that mattered, instead of the bland topics typically accompanying flirtation. They could even go out carousing if they wanted.

He’d never been romantically or physically drawn toward someone he also wanted to just spend time with, before. It felt very, very different. It felt…nice.

He felt the warmth of affection in his chest and the curl of arousal in his belly simultaneously, and it was making him come alive like never before.

He tilted his head back, pressing one hand to his hat as he looked towards the heavens.

Goodness, but the stars were bright. The sky was gorgeous, glittering gems suspended against the black.

The air smelled so fresh, so clean.

Even the sound of crickets and other distant night noises seemed especially wonderful suddenly. A symphony playing just for him.

Gaston realized he was grinning broadly, that he was filled with a floating sense of elation. He felt stronger than he ever had, like he could take on an army without breaking a sweat. He wanted to laugh, to dance.

Desire and affection, at once. Was this what love was?

He had thought what he felt towards Belle was love: a consuming want of her, a need to have her that wouldn’t go away.

Now he understood that couldn’t have been it at all. His yearning for her was an extreme form of the way he felt towards any of his would-be trophies. It wasn’t anything like this.

This…this was _wonderful._

No wonder people wrote odes about it. No wonder they said it inspired paintings, and sculptures, and poems, even entire books! No wonder the ancient Greeks had gone to war, all over some woman the Trojan prince simply had to have. Gaston had fought in one war for glory, but he would gladly fight a hundred more if only he could keep feeling this way.

He was humming as he leapt over to the next rooftop. Balancing across the narrow center beam he stretched arms to either side as he stepped lightly, still smiling. He was starting to think he’d never be able to stop.

He never wanted it to stop. He was in love with his best friend, and everything was perfect.

LeFou already knew what he liked. He knew how to take care of him. He admired and appreciated Gaston like nobody else did. He had everything Gaston knew he ever wanted in a lover, and more.

How fantastic it was going to be, that they could finally be together at last!

He crossed to yet another roof, still balancing and stepping single file, swaying merrily. He passed nearer to the square, across from the tower, heard the bells loudly tolling.

It was getting late. LeFou would certainly be home by now. He and Gaston were going to have so much to talk about.

_‘Or maybe not’_ , he thought to himself, pleased.

After all what was there to discuss? Long had LeFou been in love with him, and now Gaston was finally able to return the favor. Everything fit.

LeFou was going to be so, so grateful. He might even leap into Gaston’s arms. He could picture clearly the happiness this’d bring to his dearest friend’s face, and he was looking forward to it.

As he turned and went back the way he came, abruptly Gaston recalled something he heard Belle reciting long ago from one of her odd books.

She’d been sitting in the marketplace near the well, reading aloud to herself. He’d been watching from nearby – admiring the shape of her, how picturesque she looked, hoping she’d look up and see how handsome he was as well.

But she hadn’t looked. She’d concentrated on her book, on the poem she was reading, and Gaston had been annoyed. He’d heard what she was saying clearly, he just hadn’t paid the words any attention at the time.

Now though when he thought of them they lit up in his mind with sudden clarity.

_“Oh! How much more doth beauty beauteous seem, by that sweet ornament which truth doth give,”_ he said aloud, with eager feeling. _“The rose looks fair but fairer we it deem, for that sweet odor which doth in it live!”_

He’d thought he’d had everything, in looks and ability – but he was truly complete, now that he knew love.

He couldn’t wait to get back to the cottage and tell LeFou all about it.

*

As it got cooler outside inside the tavern seemed warmer, villagers packing their bodies in, the space filling with a comforting hum.

Stanley was only on the start of his second beer, but he’d never felt so relaxed.

The tavern was the place to go in Villeneuve after the sun went down, sometimes even before – in a village so small it was the only regular social outlet for adults, especially the unmarried men. He’d spent probably more evenings here than he hadn’t once he came of age.

Much as he bemoaned how dull their community could be – well, maybe he was a bit of a hypocrite. He didn’t hate it that much, the sameness of Villeneuve; the cozy simple life, the way he and the others had their roles. He could go to the tavern and it was like fitting into a well-worn groove, surrounded by reminders of years of memory. It coated him like a blanket, ready to make him always feel at home.

But it wasn’t the familiarity of the tavern, the reassuring atmosphere, that made him so content tonight.

He raised pewter mug to his lips, angling so it hopefully hid his discerning stare as he gazed across the table.

LeFou leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his stomach, glancing aside with an easy smile. A few loose curls hung over his eyes, there was color in his cheeks, and he looked happy.

Stanley was glad. Gladder still, that he was there with him.

It was a tingle of pleasure, bubbles like wine from Champagne. From his stomach to the back of his head.

It was so _easy_. He marveled over it. Either of them could say almost anything; without trying it made the other smile.

It felt like they’d been sitting forever, talking about the weather, sharing meaningless stories. Making their drinks last because they kept forgetting they had them. They were so casually engrossed in each other.

And the pauses in their conversation – they didn’t feel like pauses. There was no awkwardness about it. They smiled softly and glanced to one another and seemed to say something wordless but important, poignant, in these moments of otherwise empty quiet.

They talked about themselves. Little breadcrumbs, details about their lives and hobbies and likes that maybe weren’t the most significant.

One had to be careful, in Stanley’s experience, with who and how you talked plainly about yourself. No feeling was worse than saying something about one’s self, a hidden flourish of a maybe otherwise obvious life, and having the listener react with boredom or annoyance. It was like being told you were too dull to matter. After being dismissed a fair amount he’d become guarded about some things.

But he never worried about that, with LeFou.

“While I was little,” Stanley was saying, “and still on the farm with my parents, there was this old woman who lived nearby. She’d come watch us sometimes when my mother was too busy otherwise. She’d grown up near the palace-”

“What, here?” LeFou asked.

“No, not that one. _The_ palace. Versailles. She’d grown up near the palace and she served at the court under the old king’s reign. She was a nobody, she said, just some scullery maid. But she got to see so many things.”

“I’ll bet.” LeFou sounded impressed.

“We used to pester her for stories,” Stanley went on animatedly. “We’d ask her the same questions again and again. What was _Louis le Grand_ like? Was the Marquise de Montespan truly as beautiful as they said? Was she really a witch?”

“I thought it wasn’t that she was a witch; I thought it was that she _hired_ one. Or at least, that’s where she got her poisons.”

“Either way.” He waved his hand. “These were the sort of questions we asked. The same ones, over and over. We all had our favorites. You know how children are.”

LeFou hitched a half-smile. Maybe he was picturing it, little Stanley and his siblings clustered around the old matron’s knees.

“So, what about you?” he remarked. “What was your favorite story to hear?”

“Oh, that’s easy. I loved hearing everything she could tell about the king’s brother, Phillipe.” He brightened at once to remember. “What he wore, how he spoke, the people he had around him, how he acted.”

“Why him?”

“Are you kidding?” Stanley nearly squealed. “The Duke D’Orleans was so good at…at _everything_. He designed a beautiful chateau at Saint Cloud, and he singlehandedly led great victories at Lille and Cassel, and he was always impeccably dressed. He loved jewelry, and art, and architecture. He never let anyone keep him apart from those he loved, either, not even his brother the king-”

“Might have been better for the Duke’s first wife if he had,” LeFou muttered – referring to the belief the duchess was murdered by a jealous chevalier.

“Bah, that’s only an old rumor.” Stanley waved his hand again, refusing to hear such blasphemy against his childhood idol. “I used to picture what he must’ve looked like in his prime, sword drawn and flashing, curls impeccably coiffed, wearing shining armor with ribbons and medals.”

He put his hand under his chin, gaze going upward and unfocused as he sighed at the thought.

“Boy, you weren’t kidding.” LeFou took in his face with what seemed to be fond amusement. “You really did like the guy, huh?”

“LeFou, he was my _hero_ ,” Stanley gushed. “You have no idea. When I was young about all I wanted in life was to grow up and try to be just like him.”

As much as a peasant boy could hope to be like such a high-ranking nobleman, anyhow.

But the Duke d’Orleans, far as Stanley could tell, was the peak of everything he could ever desire to be. Dashing and handsome, surrounded by beautiful male lovers, meticulous in fashion and courageously accomplished in battle.

His brothers used to tease him, calling him _“Stanley d’Arc”_ , for how he ran around wearing their sisters’ hair ribbons and pretending to fence with a stick.

Things hadn’t turned out as he’d planned growing up. Though at least these days he had access to a lot more ribbons – and a real sword.

He and Tom and Dick, if he was being honest, were the sort of men who probably wouldn’t last long in the army. None of them did well at the orderly, disciplined part too much.

But how they loved to talk about it; imagining how things could be if they were in the heat of battle, the grand adventures they’d go on and the celebrations they’d have after. It was the foundation of their perhaps otherwise unlikely friendship. Tom had set aside scrap for months to forge blades for the three of them, and they liked to practice dramatically drawing weapons in unison and parrying off one another.

It was no Siege of Lille but it was something. Pretty good, for a shop assistant out of Villeneuve.

“What about you, LeFou?” he asked, wanting to keep the conversation flowing. “Who’s your hero?”

“My hero?” LeFou blinked, finishing a sip. He set his mug down as he thought, and after a second his smile faded as he looked away. “Well…I know who I would’ve _used_ to say.”

He stared blankly at the tabletop, face closed off, eyes sad.

Stanley knew what he was thinking about, and bit his tongue in uneasy consternation as he tried to decide what to do.

He didn’t dare turn his head to glance closer to the fire. The boys hanging around earlier had cleared off and now Gaston’s armchair stood empty, turned slightly towards the door at an angle. Like it was waiting for him.

There were times, especially in familiar haunts like the tavern, where it felt like the moment was waiting. Like time was frozen, anticipating Gaston’s return any second. Three months later it still didn’t seem entirely real they were carrying on without him.

Stanley shed his share of the tears. Gaston had been the real soldier their clique of imitation Musketeers wanted to be. Their shining example, their icon. When Gaston was in his element Stanley was riveted as anyone – hanging off his every action and word.

In retrospect though, once the man was unable to keep frequently hypnotizing them with his majesty, there were other moments in-between. Ones that stood out a bit differently.

Gaston could be boorish; there really was no getting around that. He was loud and careless of other people’s feelings and he talked with his mouth full. He took things that others would love to have, and couldn’t, for granted. He’d spend a fortune on stunning clothes and treat them like garbage, wearing ruffled shirts and fine leather boots out hunting and returning covered in scratches and mud.

Handsome as he was, he wasn’t perfectly Stanley’s type, so it got annoying when everyone went on like no other man even existed.

And speaking of that – so long as Gaston had been around, Stanley had never been able to get a word in edgewise with LeFou.

It hadn’t been full-fledged attraction, precisely. It’d been a hint of interest, a spark. LeFou had something special, something that caught Stanley’s eye, enough he would’ve liked to get closer. Gotten to know him better outside their casual friendship.

But it never happened. If Gaston was around LeFou couldn’t take eyes off him. And when LeFou was by himself - Stanley would sidle up, they’d exchange smiles and few words, then from somewhere Gaston would call out an impatient, _“Come on, LeFou”._ Off the other would scurry after tossing Stanley an apology. Leaving him sullen and dejected in the dust.

Now Gaston was gone forever, and some things Stanley had to admit were…better. Odd and uncertain as that felt to think.

He surely wasn’t going to say that aloud to LeFou, though. He wasn’t heartless.

“It really isn’t the same here without him, huh?” he commented neutrally, after a moment.

LeFou shook his head with a strangled laugh. “No. It’s…it’s sure not.”

He set his mouth in a way unlike the quiet wistfulness Stanley was used to seeing on this subject. Now he could’ve sworn he caught something bordering on resentful.

He wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Hesitantly he stretched his arm, trying to offer his hand subtly, in case LeFou didn’t want to take it.

“It’s all right if you’d rather avoid it.” His voice was gentle as he reminded, “I am here, though, if you still need to talk.”

“There are times these days when I feel like I never want to hear Gaston’s name ever again,” LeFou said resolutely. “But, oh, it’s so complicated, Stanley. There’s so much going on.”

“I’ll bet.”

“No. Really. You don’t understand – no offense, but you _can’t_ understand. Which believe me is probably for the best.” He looked up, a realization flashed across him. “I did want to say something to you, though.”

“What is it?” He leaned forward slightly.

LeFou gave a pained look. “I’ve kept you waiting. Longer than I said that I would.”

“Oh, that.” He forced an airy chuckle – because truth was, he had been wondering. And starting to worry. “You don’t have to say anything about it. I understand you needed to take time.”

“No, listen to me. Please.” Now it was LeFou’s turn to lean forward, pleadingly earnest. “This is longer than I wanted. Believe me. It’s not what I was…planning.”

Stanley’s heart beat a little faster as he hung on LeFou’s every word.

“But things changed,” LeFou went on. “Something unexpected happened and, well, I got busy. Really busy. I know that’s not an excuse, and I’m sorry. All I can ask is for your understanding.”

He gave that wonderful smile of his, that warm smile; enough of his teeth showing that gap in the front was visible, bashfulness shining in his wide dark eyes.

“And I promise soon as things change and I have a moment to myself again, if it’s possible I still want to take you up on that.”

“It’s more than possible,” Stanley murmured, gazing at him.

It was hard to be patient, but LeFou was worth waiting for. Especially when he was finally so close. What was a few more days, a few more weeks? They’d nothing but time, and no obstacles.

“I’m glad to hear that.” Smiling in relief LeFou looked down, noticing his hand open on the table. He put his own into it. “You keep coming around, Stanley, and it means so much to me I…I can’t even say,” he told him sincerely. “Thank you for being there.”

“I want to be there – to be here,” Stanley replied.

He wished he could explain: it didn’t even feel like altruism, entirely. LeFou had seemed so sad and alone, and he hated to see that. It made _him_ feel good, to see LeFou doing better at last.

He rubbed the back of LeFou’s knuckles, lightly, with his thumb. LeFou watched this, almost like it was happening to someone else.

“I suppose I’m grateful for the attention,” he admitted. “Maybe I don’t get ignored, exactly, but I’m used to being treated like I’m part of the scenery. Reliable LeFou. I’m nobody special.”

“I disagree,” Stanley said at once. LeFou looked up, startled, coloring slightly as he tried laughing it off.

“Well you,” he gestured, magnanimously, “are definitely special.”

“I know.” Stanley preened on purpose, drawing another chuckle from LeFou.

“I mean it, though.” Leaning in he gripped Stanley by the bicep. “There is so much…”

He trailed off – eyes widening slightly as he looked at his own hand and Stanley’s arm. He’d been giving the muscle a friendly squeeze and seemed surprised by what he discovered.

Since he preferred cuffs and vests so tailored Stanley almost never rolled his sleeves back in public. There was little opportunity for people to get a sense of what he looked like under his clothes.

But fabric was heavier than it looked, and it was his job to carry bolts of it day after day. There was a lot of definition in his upper body and arms.

Stanley let his eyes go half-lidded and tried not to look too smug.

“…much more to you beneath the surface,” LeFou finished, distracted.

He withdrew both hands as if he suddenly didn’t trust himself. Clearing his throat he settled back into his seat.

Stanley bit the inside of his cheek as he watched this reaction, admittedly enjoying it.

They went quiet again. Stanley nursing his drink. LeFou thinking as he toyed with his mug.

“Can I ask you something kind of personal?” he finally went after nearly a minute.

Stanley fought to keep the smile on his face. Somehow, he just knew. Of course it’d come up, eventually.

“It’s about the women’s clothing, isn’t it.”

LeFou looked pained by his response. “I’m not judging. Really. I’m not,” he stressed. “But I am curious as to-”

“Why?”

“Yeah.” LeFou nodded.

He shrugged. “Why not?” He glanced into his beer, because this was hardly the first time he’d been asked. He just never seemed able to give a satisfactory answer. “I enjoy it. I like the way it feels when I dress up, the more elaborate the better. And you can do so much with dresses and gowns. They’re so dramatic, and fancy. Doesn’t it make you feel good about yourself, when you get a new set of clothes or bring your nicest outfit out of storage, and you’ve a chance to put it on and really gussy up?”

“Maybe. I guess.”

“Well I love it. I’m taking everything inside of me and showing it to the world. It makes me feel confident and strong and, well,” he admitted, “pretty.”

“I would have said ‘beautiful’,” LeFou remarked quietly.

Stanley glanced at him in surprise this time, feeling his face warm with gratitude.

“I’m not used to hearing you talk about things this way,” LeFou went on, observing.

“I don’t get much chance to. I keep it to myself.” Stanley frowned. “I’m not ashamed about myself,” he said, hotly. “I’m _not_. But-”

“Other people,” LeFou finished for him. “How they react.”

They met eyes again as Stanley nodded. “It’s not me, it’s them. Most times I simply don’t feel like dealing with it.”

LeFou nodded back and gave a small commiserating smile.

“Believe me, I understand.”

Stanley knew that he did. He could tell from his expression, that look in his eyes, tired and bright and determined all at once.

Such lovely eyes. Such a lovely face. Stanley felt like he never wanted to look away from him; at the very least he certainly didn’t want to right now.

Of course, he knew that he had lovely eyes as well – and it appeared LeFou had noticed. Because he was gazing back at Stanley the same way. Like he never wanted to stop.

The rest of the world, the sounds and colors and heat, had fallen away. It was only the two of them.

And this, Stanley knew, was it. One of those moments you could feel the pulse of perfectly. It was going to happen. They were going to kiss.

Stanley sat up straighter. LeFou’s mouth parted. They both began to lean in.

“Aha! There he is!”

With a burst of garish laughter that made Stanley blink and jump Tom appeared, standing practically between them. Tankard swinging from his hand, oblivious.

“And look, he’s found our third party!”

“How very convenient,” Dick chimed in, pleased. He’d a drink already in hand as well and knowing him probably guzzled about half of it on the way over. Joining Tom, he rested his arm heavily on LeFou’s shoulder. “Nice to see you again, mate.”

“You too, Dick.” LeFou’s grin was forced. “It’s been awhile.”

“It’s been _too long_ ,” Dick retorted in a crow. He grasped LeFou by the arms. “Finally the four of us can sit down together and catch up!”

“Just like old times – almost.” Tom bullied his way past that flicker of pained memory. He slapped Stanley on the back. “Ain’t it grand?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Stanley’s response was wooden and wry.

He looked at the merry expectant faces of their two friends, then back over at LeFou.

They shared a mental shrug and a silent sigh.

“To life,” Stanley offered, lifting his mug in a toast.

_“C’est le vie,”_ LeFou agreed, joining him with the same tone of accepted surrender.

*

The rest of the time at the tavern, once Tom and Dick joined them, had dragged more than the hours before it. LeFou was more than glad when after another round he was able to beg off and slink away.

Still he couldn’t say he’d been entirely miserable. They _were_ his friends, and it _was_ good to see them. Tom and Dick had certainly been having a good evening. Catching up, spending time with them again was enjoyable.

Not as enjoyable as before that when it’d only been him and Stanley though.

He was smiling as he walked back. Still thinking about how it’d been, at first. Their conversation and how it felt, the pair of them together.

He enjoyed being with Stanley – he liked, self-centered though it might be, that Stanley clearly enjoyed being with him. He thought it wasn’t naïve imagination to say they made each other happy.

He carried that feeling inside him, like a glowing ball, as he strolled through the night.

His smile had settled onto his face in a gradual way so it felt natural, like it was always supposed to be there, by the time he got home. Inside was quiet – absently he checked to see if Gaston was there. It didn’t occur to worry when he saw he was not.

His thoughts were distracted, disjointed, buzzing lightly between his ears.

He went around cleaning up, straightening the bedroom and picking up dirty clothes, sorting some to be washed and others folded and put away. He checked the pantry, trying to plan ahead.

He was dusting in the kitchen when he heard the front door open and close.

“LeFou! Where are you? Are you home?”

He turned around in time for Gaston to stroll in, heading straight for him. LeFou opened his mouth about to query how he was, but he didn’t get the chance.

“Ah, there you are!”

The flash of scarlet fabric was bright beneath his unbuttoned coat. There was a strip of cloth bound around his injured hand. But most noticeable was that Gaston was positively beaming.

“I was hoping I would find you. My dearest friend,” he practically purred with fondness. He stopped before him, gazing down like he was seeing him for the first time. “My LeFou.”

“You seem to be in a better mood,” LeFou noted.

“Oh, yes. It’s such a beautiful night! Isn’t it?”

He removed his tricorn and tossed it onto the table carelessly, before turning back to LeFou. Eyes bright with animation he gestured as he spoke.

“The kind of night when anything, _anything_ ,” he paused meaningfully, smoothing his hair as he fixed LeFou with another look, “seems possible. You know what I mean?”

“Uh-”

“But of course you would! What a foolish question,” Gaston chortled.

LeFou belatedly realized he looked mildly…unhinged. Not in a bad way, maybe. But he was having a hard time giving name to whatever strange emotion seemed to have him in its thrall.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen Gaston quite like this before, at once so pleased with himself yet visibly distracted.

“I’m not thinking clearly, perhaps. Then how could I be? I…” He drew a breath, voice hitching as he shifted to purposeful eloquence, _“But for their virtue only is their show, they live unwoo’d and unrespected fade, die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so, of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made. And so of you beauteous and lovely youth, when that shall vade my verse distills your truth.”_

He inhaled again, either not noticing how LeFou was staring at him or not caring.

“What good is the greatest appearance in the world if it has no one to appreciate it? Someone to _really_ appreciate it, to take it in for everything that it is?” Gaston expounded, scoffing casually. As if it were the most natural thing he was suddenly acting both the poet and the philosopher. “Why, almost better for a flower to wither to nothing, wasted, then be plucked and given into unworthy hands. Admired by those who only _think_ they know its value, but stopping short of the truth! You see?”

“Uh huh. Are you _drunk?_ ” LeFou asked.

“No,” Gaston was quick to assure him, “no, not at all!”

He reached into his coat, fumbling slightly as he pulled out a bottle and threw it to LeFou, who barely managed to catch it in absence of proper warning.

“I might’ve had a bit to take the edge off, but that’s nothing. I’d other things on my mind.”

Holding up the bottle for a closer look, estimating what was missing, LeFou saw he was right. He couldn’t have had much. Certainly not enough to get Gaston insensible – he’d too much firsthand experience not to know what his friend’s limits were.

LeFou was still frowning, puzzled, as Gaston went on.

“You see, I…well I’ve been _thinking_.”

The somber gravity he bestowed on the word was hard not to find funny, regardless of circumstance.

LeFou raised his eyebrows as he quipped, “A dangerous pastime.”

“I know,” Gaston responded, missing the sarcasm. “But, no, listen. It’s about what you said earlier. When you explained how things were. I’ve been thinking it over and I realized, you’re completely right.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. There’s nothing wrong with it, with any of it! What difference does it make? That doesn’t change me at all. After all, this is _me_ we’re talking about! Has there ever been any doubt what I am? Who I would grow up to be? Honestly! I didn’t fight my way free of an entire pack of werewolves to let something so…immaterial stop me now!”

LeFou couldn’t help pulling the cork from the _eau-de-vie_ to give the contents a sniff. It could’ve fermented and become stronger than he realized? Or maybe, somehow, the bottle was drugged.

Either would help explain the abrupt turnabout in Gaston’s attitude, not to mention how positively giddy he seemed.

“Being able to feel something doesn’t make me any less of a man. Doesn’t make _either_ of us any less of a man. You were right,” Gaston repeated, magnanimously. “Thank you.”

He really did seem sincere, LeFou realized. “Well, I am glad you’re feeling all right now.”

Even if Gaston was being a touch ridiculous he couldn’t help but smile. It was a relief to see him acting cheerful again after how incredibly miserable he’d been earlier. He never could’ve predicted his advice would work so well.

Turning his back, LeFou went to put the bottle of liquor away in a cupboard.

“You _should_ be glad, LeFou.” There was that confident chortle again. “You should be positively thrilled.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he had to say, offhandedly dry. “Sure, I’m happy that you’re happy, and considering the subject I don’t think it’s something I’d want to see anyone getting upset over, but-”

“No, no, you misunderstand! I’m talking the bigger picture here, the broader implications. This might not change much but it does change one thing.”

He paused, voice lowering. The floorboards creaked from his boots as he swaggered a few steps forward.

“One…significant thing. Ah, LeFou. There probably isn’t any woman in town, and who knows maybe a few of the men as well, who wouldn’t love to be in your shoes right now. This is it. This is the day your dreams come true.”

LeFou froze with hand on the cupboard door, turning around. “Me? What are you…?”

“You have to ask?” Gaston had closed the last bit of distance between them, giving a soft but heated look. “What you know you’ve always wanted – what we both know you’ve always wanted. It’s yours, for the taking, now.”

Slowly LeFou realized – he recognized that expression. It was the one Gaston wore when he fixated on his next romantic conquest. The smolder in his eyes as he moved in for the kill.

And now he had it, and could be looking nowhere except straight at LeFou.

“Isn’t it perfect? Simply perfect? All our lives we’ve already been together. You’ve always been my most loyal of companions, my most devoted admirer,” Gaston breathed every word with relish. “No one understands me, as you do. No one else so anticipates my needs. Why, if such a thing were possible, there are times I’d even say you know me better than I know myself.”

Eyes wide LeFou fought the urge to step back, because he felt if he did Gaston was going to box him into the corner.

_‘I’m not hearing this,’_ he thought incredulously. _‘This isn’t happening.’_

“There I was searching high and low for the one, that one special prize I needed to complete me. And now that I’m looking at the world through different eyes…I see it so clearly. There you are. Right in front of me,” he declared feelingly. “And you _are_ special, LeFou – so very special. We already make such a perfect pair, and now that I’ve realized what’s important we can be even more than that. Everything _fits_!”

LeFou had to work his tongue loose before he could speak, delicately.

“Gaston…it sounds like you’re trying to say something.” He paused, but Gaston only continued to gaze at him, smiling effusively with eager eyes. LeFou pressed, “So why don’t you just _say_ it?”

Gaston took a second, shaking head slightly before he announced with dramatic joy:

“I think that I’m in love with you!”

LeFou nodded, once.

Then he lifted his head, staring up at the ceiling, past it towards the sky he imagined above.

He’d never actually believed before that God hated him. No matter what some people might claim.

But in this moment, he was feverishly starring to wonder if it might in fact be true after all.

“LeFou? Didn’t you hear me?”

“Oh, I heard you all right,” LeFou mumbled, still not looking back down.

“Well?” Gaston demanded, laughing pleasantly. He put a hand on LeFou’s shoulder, the other going to rest on his chin – thumb just lightly caressing his bottom lip. “Aren’t you pleased?”

The question was clearly rhetorical. Gaston expected he already knew the answer. He was confident of it, as he’d been so many times over the years with so many girls.

LeFou met his eyes. The expression he saw was disorienting – there was that easy grin of camaraderie Gaston often gave him, that relaxed and expectant look of understanding he had like when they were reminiscing about the war.

But he’d never looked at LeFou with such particular intensity before: hypnotic and wanting.

LeFou forced a smile.

“Gaston,” he went gently, “you know, all my life, it’s always been hard to pay attention to anyone else when you’re around. I could spend hours listing your charms. You are without a doubt the handsomest, most physically perfect man I will ever find.”

“Uh huh?” Gaston prompted LeFou to go on, smugly pleased.

In the same light manner, with the same smile, LeFou continued, “And now, after everything that’s happened, I realized…that your insides in no way match your outside!”

There was a beat. Gaston looked perplexed as the actual words registered. “What?”

LeFou spat out, in a tone rough and sharp as ground-up glass, “You are, unequivocally, _the_ most self-centered, temperamental, vain, thoughtless being walking around on the entire planet!”

Dropping the façade he let his building rage, his revulsion show as he went on, voice rising.

“I’ve given an entire list of reasons I have to be angry with you, things that you did wrong, that you did to me personally! And now you want to be together? You say that and you expect me to what, swoon at your feet? Are you _crazy?_ ”

Gaston was backing away, eyes wide as he stared with disbelief.

LeFou kept going, snapping out every syllable, unable to stop now even if he wanted.

“You ruined it – you ruined _us_. I trusted you, I cared about you, and then you went and did everything you possibly could to make me regret every moment I ever wasted being near you! I barely want anything to do with you socially anymore, and even that’s out of sense of duty to what we once had! You are the _last_ person I could ever want to be with, now.”

He fell silent at last, ire spent, chest rising and falling as he raggedly caught his breath.

Gaston’s mouth was hanging open slightly, face creased with concern and dismay. At first he said nothing.

But then in the silence that built after LeFou’s tirade he seemed to gather himself.

“Ah, my friend,” he remarked, smiling once more, “you’re always so spirited. Truly, it is one of your most endearing qualities. Like me you live life with such passion!” He gestured with a fist. “You really know how to seize the day, take it by the horns.”

“Oh god,” LeFou stated, flatly, “you haven’t listened to a word I said.”

“Of course I have. I’ve been listening to you more keenly than ever before.” Gaston stood in front of him again, voice smooth. “I understand how you feel about some things, LeFou; what’s important. I hear you.”

“I think it’s clear that you don’t.”

“Things have changed. Quite a few of them. Some of it…well, most of it, is because of me.” Gaston said reasonably, “I wasn’t thinking entirely clearly, before. And I might’ve made a few mistakes. I understand how maybe that might’ve given you due cause to be a little reluctant in how you feel toward me for a time.”

LeFou could give no response to that. He could only stare at him, stunned and affronted.

Gaston seemed to think the quiet meant he had won. He laughed casually.

“I see now that perhaps it won’t be so easy as making my feelings known to you. You’re reluctant to accept something so overwhelmingly perfect as the idea of us finally being together.”

He grinned, so sure of himself. There was no better word for his expression but ‘wolfish’.

“But the notion that you, _mon amour_ , could ever be so completely out of affection for me? No. No,” he laughed again. “It’s absurd. I’ll simply have to prove the point to you. To win you back over.”

Reaching out he tapped the tip of LeFou’s nose.

“It’s all right. I know what to do. In a way, even, I’m looking forward to it. Any pursuit, any great romance, is only sweetened by the part before. The wooing. The _chase_.”

He backed away, striking a pose, the hair of his ponytail falling across one shoulder - before he went out the door.

“You know me. Ever one to enjoy any challenge. Even one so easy as I imagine will be this.”

With that he was gone.

LeFou was left blinking at the space he’d occupied, reality sinking in as he tried to process what just happened.

At length all he could do was mutter, “I have a very bad feeling about this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sonnet mentioned is by Shakespeare, sonnet number 54; one of many written addressed to a male youth. (Gaston interprets the meaning of it completely wrong, of course. It's about the value of inner beauty as being complimentary to the physical.)
> 
> Phillipe I, Duke of Orleans, younger brother to Louis XIV, was indeed an open and apparently rather flamboyant gay man. He enjoyed dressing up in women's clothing and was charismatic and admired for his military prowess. After a particularly impressive victory at the Battle of Cassel, Louis effectively barred him from ever going to war again because he was jealous of his popularity with the French people. Unfortunately Phillipe had a weakness for bad boys: his two most well-known lovers were said to be arrogant, jealous and immensely unpopular. Phillipe's first wife Henrietta of England probably died of peritonitis but on her deathbed she claimed to have been poisoned, resulting in the belief among many that Phillipe's lover the Chevalier de Lorraine was responsible.
> 
> Louis XIV's most well-known mistress, Madame de Montespan, had a long reign in his favor that ended rather dramatically thanks to something known as the "Affair of the Poisons". In the process of investigating claims various noblewomen at Versailles had been employing the services of a notorious fortune-teller and poisoner known as "La Voisin", authorities were horrified when de Montespan's name came up. Many nowadays think the mistress probably only visited her once as a joke or was falsely implicated entirely, but at the time rumor spread like wildfire she had been using black magic regularly and feeding homemade love potions to the king.


	6. you are the moon that breaks the night for which I have to howl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What am I feeling  
> is it a feeling  
> could I be feeling somehow  
> all of this time I never truly had one  
> why would I be starting now
> 
> if it's a feeling  
> truly a feeling  
> why is it hurting me so  
> could it be my first one is a bad one  
> how am I supposed to know"
> 
> \- galavant (2x04), "what am I feeling"

“Did you hear that?”

At the voice beside her, Mrs. Potts blinked. Pulled from the reverie she’d been lulled into by the steady movement of the coach and the creaking rattle of the horses in their harness, she was for a moment distracted.

“What? I beg your pardon?” Turning her head, she addressed her companion curiously.

The other woman in the carriage - being of a similar age to Mrs. Potts herself, clad in such adornment of ruffles and lace as to set her off as Villeneuve’s version of wealthy - glanced around with a shaken panic.

“I thought I heard something.” Her eyes darted out the window, towards the thick trees lining their path.

Out in the forest, she clearly meant.

Mrs. Potts could only shake her head, lips pressed together. She’d heard nothing.

Both women paused, listening keenly, but of course there was no sound save the familiar movement of the carriage and the occasional whistling of wind.

“It was probably just your imagination, dear,” she assured with soft restraint.

“Oh!” Reaching into a silk-lined reticule the other produced a fan, which she unfolded and started waving in a state of nervous agitation. “As utterly grateful as I am to His Grace for permitting us the distinct honor of riding in his very own carriage for our journey homeward…I do wish they could hurry us along a bit faster!”

“Now, now, Madame: if they did _that_ the coach would shake even more than it is already, on this uneven old road.” Mrs. Potts struggled a bit to keep her tone from betraying wryness. “And weren’t you just remarking on how you wished the ride could be smoother?”

Madame Cecile gave a distracted titter of airy laughter. It seemed a nervous affectation.

“Why I was only saying how it was a surprise to me that a coach of superior construction, as such the Prince could obviously possess, would shake at all,” she exclaimed, repeating her alluded-to words from before.

She bit her lower lip slightly, movement practiced so not to smudge her rouge.

“Although,” she mused, “given the length of time His Grace had been kept apart from the latest styles, prevented from going abroad to replenish his properties, one might suppose his household may no longer be on the cutting edge of such advancement…”

“One could suppose that then, yes.”

Mrs. Potts’ voice was flat. To hide the annoyed wrinkle in her brow she looked down, on pretense of adjusting her skirts.

Her dress was quite simple. Compared to the elaborations she wore as befitted her station as a high-ranking servant around the household, it could be said now she looked downright dowdy.

No corsets or foundation, skirts and bodice composed of darker practical fabric. Instead of piled high in curls her hair was pinned down and back, kept in place beneath a straw bonnet tied with a ribbon.

“Why, Madame,” Lumiere exclaimed warmly when he saw her that morning, “I almost wouldn’t recognize you!”

Under the circumstances he meant it as a compliment, and she took it as one. Beaming back at him in understanding, she’d allowed him to grasp her hand and spin her grandly as if they’d been promenading about the ballroom.

She was on what amounted to a holiday. For two weeks, she’d been given leave to return to her husband, to do nothing but spend time with him and their son.

Her employer had offered her more, and gladly, but Mrs. Potts demurred. Why, it’d taken long enough to arrange things would be looked after in her absence to her satisfaction. She couldn’t imagine how much fretting she’d have to do, were she to remain away any longer!

As it were, even, the prospect of two weeks deprived of her had so badly shaken Cogsworth, for a time Mrs. Potts worried for the poor man’s health.

With the date of departure fixed, her Jean offered to bring his little donkey-cart up to fetch her. But the Master and his lovely new wife insisted that wouldn’t be necessary. They were more than happy to provide a carriage to escort her home.

Indeed, they’d laughed, it would be stranger for them _not_ to do so – as by this point, habit being established of them offering this service to just about everybody.

It was those persistent rumors. As the weather stayed unusual even as the days began to grow shorter and darker, still reports came from those who claimed to have seen and heard this roving pack of wolves. Farmers from the furthest reaches told of livestock being attacked, and there were even whispers now of people vanishing – though the fact none could ever give any details left Mrs. Potts inclined to believe this at least was nothing but frightened gossip.

The rest, though, she couldn’t be so sure about. No one could, to a growing sense of unease.

Since the forest no doubt was a favorite hiding place for the creatures, now no one ever travelled the path between village and castle alone. It wasn’t uncommon to put off planned journeys by whole days if it meant finding company, and more than once a petitioner was offered a room for the night rather than risk heading out in the dark.

Even Belle’s father took to exercising caution in his travels – and attentive though he’d always been of his daughter’s safety, he’d been somewhat lackadaisical with his own. He’d needed no censure to adjust his routine, however – which almost left Mrs. Potts wondering if there was something he’d heard which she had not.

It was unlikely. Far as she knew Maurice had no ear for gossip. Though she herself was uninterested in the common provincial hobby, well-connected as she was she always heard everything; whether she wanted to or not.

She glanced up again to find Madame Cecile still restlessly fanning herself.

The other reminded her of the small lapdogs favored by some noblewomen – acting carelessly indolent one moment, transformed the next by slightest sound or movement to high-strung anxiety.

Of course, the good Madame aspired not to be like one of their pets but the women themselves. Birth didn’t give her means to gain entry to nobility, and the best she could hope for in such isolated locale marriage-wise had been the village silversmith.

By Villeneuve standards she was the very height of society, which left her perhaps frustratingly stuck. She’d never have the resources to befriend the _right sort_ , invited along to an inner circle somewhere where she’d circulate with gentry and the fabulously wealthy; feel the pleasure that came from knowing somebody of real upper-crust worth.

It didn’t take any practiced observation of character, such as Mrs. Potts possessed, to know then what brought Madame Cecile to the castle. It was the closest she’d come to realizing her desires.

By being a frequent guest, taking tea with the Prince’s wife, she’d the pleasure of interacting with highest blood and station. No doubt the instant the curse had broken, she’d perked up at the thought of being able to say she’d visited a real _Prince_.

Her ever-increasing calls following the celebration ball – as good an announcement as any the Prince and his wife were willing to socialize with the “commoners” – probably meant she believed herself in the process of being able to boast she’d intimate friendship with someone of rank.

In reality, Mrs. Potts wondered if the couple’s patience was wearing thin enough they’d soon find pretense to bar her. Belle of course had no interest in social frippery such as Madame Cecile sought, and any amusement Adam felt interacting with such a singularly oblivious character, it was probably less charming after the dozenth or so time.

It was most irritating no doubt the woman seemed to think they’d keep the habit that was known for royalty at Versailles, where nobles rushed to greet and fawn over them first thing in the morning.

The last thing a pair of newlyweds desired before the noon hour was to be fawned over by anyone but each other. Madame Cecile’s social calls had cut into a fair amount of leisurely breakfasts and long mornings in bed.

Mrs. Potts couldn’t but shake her head. As a married woman herself, was it so hard to see what she was interrupting? Did she not remember what those first few months of wedded bliss were?

Then again perhaps she’d no idea from the start, she noted tartly - the closest one of Mrs. Potts’ character could come to being outright unkind in thought towards another: it was plain the other woman had married for money.

Madame Cecile fidgeted, fan ever-fluttering. “I really could’ve sworn I heard something,” she murmured, insistent.

Mrs. Potts restrained her sigh. She glanced across at the final party sharing their carriage.

“Did _you_ hear anything, Chapeau?” she asked.

The manservant met her gaze and politely shook his head.

“Well then.” Mrs. Potts looked to the other, trying to reassure her. “Whatever it was, we must be well passed it now. And anyway, we’ll be at the village in any moment.”

Chapeau nodded in solemn backing of this statement. Unlike Mrs. Potts he was still wearing finest attire. But then his leave was only for a day – by tomorrow he’d be back at work again. It was an awful lot of trouble for such a short break, going to and from, and far as she knew he’d no close family in the village. She couldn’t help wondering what the point was.

Not that it was any of her business. Maybe she was only curious because she hadn’t already heard: Chapeau kept his intentions close to the vest, as always.

With one stocking-clad leg crossed over the other he sat motionless save for how they were all jostled, ever-so slightly, by the movements of the travelling carriage. In one arm and across his lap he held a long rectangular box, the kind used to hold flowers or some other present.

This, Mrs. Potts could admit, prickled her motherly interest. Was it possible Chapeau was paying a visit to some sweetheart?

Her contemplations were interrupted by Madame Cecile fidgeting again. The layers to her skirts made quite the rustle.

“Do you suppose that the noble couple will be announcing another public soiree soon?” she inquired of her companions, apparently trying to distract herself. “Maybe something for the commencement of the harvest season?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” Mrs. Potts told her. “And if there was to be, by now, we should’ve already started planning. There is however going to be a celebration towards the end of December.”

“Oh, but that is so far away! Why, doesn’t Belle realize it’s more appropriate to have events every other month, at least, if one wishes to cultivate a proper social atmosphere?” Madame Cecile enthused.

Chapeau gave the tiniest cough, his way of expressing droll amusement she mistakenly believed _Belle_ had anything to do with it.

“She must not realize, having married upward as she is,” she went on, unaware. “Someone should take her under their wing and guide her.”

“I’m sure someone suitable could be found – if she were interested.” Mrs. Potts glanced at the voluminous ruffles, interested in changing the subject. “Is your gown new, Madame?”

“Oh yes,” Madame Cecile responded, holding fan at an angle as she tilted her head back, smiling. “Isn’t it fetching? You know, I’m quite pleased with what Madame Béguin’s confections have looked like, lately. I believe those girls of hers are finally making vast improvements at their sewing.”

“It is very unique,” Mrs. Potts complimented her respectfully. The colors were too bright for her own taste, but she did like the ribbons. “You say Mayette Béguin’s daughters did that?”

“They must have done, I know what their mother’s handiwork looks like well by now. I’ve been her most loyal customer for years. Perhaps the triplets are taking to their instruction with more time, now that they’re not so distracted by-”

The coach crossed a bump in the road that signaled they were at the edge of the village proper, resulting in a hard shake for those seated within, and a loud thump that cut her short.

“Ah, there we are,” Mrs. Potts observed – a little ashamed by relief she felt knowing soon she’d part with her present company.

Within minutes they’d rolled up the hilly road that made the final part of their journey, and the coachmen brought them to a halt in the village square. As the door was held open Chapeau exited first and then stood by to help the women climb out, offering them his hand.

“Thank you very much, Chapeau.”

Mrs. Potts put one hand to her bonnet to straighten it. Madame Cecile had already wandered off – she was chatting with Madame Posey nearby, probably bragging of another “successful” visit.

Chapeau nodded, giving her one of his small smiles.

“I’ll see you in two weeks, then?” She smiled in return as they parted. “Enjoy yourself!”

She stood back and waved as he walked off.

Though he didn’t look back, for a moment she watched curiously, wondering if she could figure his intended destination. He didn’t enter any of the shops or houses however but kept going until he turned the corner and was out of sight.

Mrs. Potts sighed, small indulgence into nosiness thwarted, and she turned to make the way to her own home.

Outside she was at once gratified when she beheld her husband loading up his wagon. He looked and saw her, face lighting up immediately.

“Ah, Beatrice,” he reached towards her, overjoyed, “you’ve arrived! How wonderful. Welcome home, love.”

“It’s good to see you too, Mr. Potts,” she addressed him with marital fondness, returning his embrace and kissing his cheek.

“Your journey went well?”

“Yes, it was perfectly fine.” She kept any ruminations on how longer it had seemed at the time to herself.

Now that she was no longer trapped with Cecile her irritation was rapidly fading. The woman herself was far from a bad soul, Mrs. Potts reasoned. Merely vain and a bit silly. Motive perhaps not to seek out her company, but hardly to despise her.

Mrs. Potts was a warm-hearted woman, and found it especially difficult to keep a single bad thought in her head when returned to the longed-for hold of her loving husband.

Once finished they stood there, arms on each other as they stepped back, mutually admiring the sight of one another.

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you, darling. You look very well yourself. On your way into the market then?”

“Bit of a late morning.” He glanced at his cart then back at her, regretful. “And as I wasn’t sure whether you’d be in before supper, I assumed I might as well-”

“Oh, go on, then.” She gave him a light push, shooing him off, as she laughed silently over his fussing. “You silly dear. I’ll still be here when you get back, and you have me for more than the next few days.”

“But I want to enjoy every moment,” he said, earnest, and though he was reaching for Pierre’s bridle, with his other hand he lifted the brim of her bonnet for a better look at her face.

She was touched, naturally. She warmed with fondness, gratified to feel this again with her husband – every moment still felt precious after such time apart.

But still she laughed aloud this time, waving him off again. “You need to _work_ ,” she reminded him. “The plates and saucers won’t sell themselves. Go.” She nodded. “I’ll be sure and reward you tonight with a good supper.”

“Having you around is more than reward enough, for me.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek, tipped his hat and led Pierre off on the familiar path to the marketplace.

Mrs. Potts stood by the door, hand under her chin, smiling to herself as she gazed after him.

Once Jean was off she went inside, hanging up her bonnet and putting on an apron. She set to work checking the larder and then tidying up. Chip hadn’t made his bed of course, and the floor needed sweeping.

She went outside to check on her tulips, only to stop in her tracks as she passed by the opening to Pierre’s stall.

A long-eared brown and white goat was within, helping itself to the hay. As Mrs. Potts stared, it looked up at her with defiant bleating.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She turned and went back in, then out onto the front porch where she discovered Chip playing.

“Oh, there you are, Mama!” With a grin he stood up from his blocks and marbles, hugging her around the waist.

“Yes, yes – here I am.”

She hugged him back, tightly, and kissed his head. Much as she missed her child during these absences she was trying not to make a fuss of it. Focus on keeping their routine normal. She and Jean were simple folk, with simple enough needs: it was easier than some might imagine.

“My darling boy. I swear you’ve gotten bigger since I saw you last.”

“Did Papa tell you I can ride Pierre all by myself now?”

“Oh, can you? You’ll have to show me, later. Right now can you do your mother a favor?”

“Of course, Mama.”

“I want you to run along and see if you can’t find Monsieur LeFou for me. I’m afraid his goat must’ve escaped again, because she’s back in our stable.”

She sent her son off and returned to the housework. Not half an hour later Chip came skipping back.

“That was fast.”

“I found LeFou in the market, Mama. It wasn’t hard at all.” He stopped outside the kitchen window, looking up as she spoke through it to him. “I told him about the goat. He looks awful, though. Like he’s sick.”

Mrs. Potts frowned at this information. “Well what did you say to him?”

“I told him that, too,” Chip responded bluntly.

“Oh, you!” she groaned in exasperation. “Run off and finish your game for now. I’ll settle with you later. Clearly we need to have a talk about minding your manners.”

With foreboding prescience, she put the kettle on and set out the tea things. She unpacked some biscuits she’d made herself, iced in the shape of flowers.

She glanced out the window and saw LeFou approaching. Chip was right – he did look awful. Not in any obvious way, perhaps: his hair was combed and his clothes were neat enough.

But there was a distracted, miserable air about him. As if something was weighing him down heavily.

Mrs. Potts was quick to usher him inside.

“I am so sorry about Maisie,” he began, before she could say anything. He sounded bad as he looked, a man with too much on his mind, nerves fraying. “I knew I should’ve tied her up better. I…” He trailed off, mouth closing tightly.

Warm as the day was Mrs. Potts had left the door open behind him. There was no one around, visibly, but one never knew in a small village.

Understanding at once she went and shut it, firmly. She lowered her voice when she spoke, just in case. “Does it have something to do with your guest?”

“My _guest_.” LeFou laughed unhappily. “But yes, you’re right, it does. The goat’s always been bad-tempered, but my horse is acting up too, and none of my hens have laid so much as one egg this whole time. The shed and the yard are too close to the house, I think; they must be able to smell or _sense_ something.”

Mrs. Potts was unable to help having a superstitious chill at these words. Though she half-heartedly chided herself.

“If it’s likely to keep happening, then, why don’t we watch her here for you? That way she won’t keep wandering.”

“Oh – would you? That would be a load off my mind,” he said desperately. “If you need reimbursement for the hay she keeps eating-”

“Nonsense,” she hushed him, almost indignant. “Don’t be ridiculous! Why, she’s a goat after all; I’ll put her to work trimming weeds in my vegetable patch if she needs to earn her room and board.”

She pulled out a chair and steered him to it.

“Now, now, sit down. Please.”

LeFou sat obediently, posture slightly hunched over. His laced his fingers and stared at them, keeping hands in his lap.

Mrs. Potts poured a cup of tea, fixed it for him, and waited until he’d finally taken a sip, before she prompted him somberly, “My poor dear. Is it really so bad?”

LeFou didn’t bother to deny it. He sniffed, his lips trembling.

“He’s so _hard_ to put up with right now. After everything. I don’t know if you realize what Gaston is like – it’s just that he’s so loud, and easily bored, and demanding. And now things being as they are, he has no one to distract him. No one but me…”

“It’s not…dangerous, is it?” she asked, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. She looked into his face, worriedly. “I wouldn’t dare judge, but I have to ask. It’s just, they say such _things_ about werewolves.”

“Oh, no.” LeFou blinked and gave a feeble chuckle. “It’s not that at all. I promise. Yeah, there are some things that are _odd_ , but his personality hasn’t changed. He’s still Gaston. And that’s the problem.” His face fell. “And I agreed to keep hiding him for this long. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You weren’t, love. Or you were thinking with your heart,” she said, not unkindly. “He’s been your friend forever and ever, hasn’t he? You’re a good soul for trying to help him. Even if-”

“He doesn’t deserve it?” he finished for her.

He shut his eyes and then took another sip of his tea, gulping it down as if needing the fortification.

“Oh, Mrs. Potts. I don’t know what I’m going to do. It’s more than a week until the full moon, and the Prince’s men won’t be coming until the week after. I don’t think I’m going to make it that long. He’s driving me crazy! He…”

He trailed off, shaking head in despair.

“I can’t even _say_ it. If only you knew.”

“If you change your mind,” she said, resolutely, “all it takes is a word. The Prince will have someone up here in a minute. You’re the one doing a favor here, LeFou. There’s no reason it should make _you_ suffer.”

He was still and silent. “No,” he decided, after a moment. “I made a deal. I can’t go back on it now. It doesn’t matter how much Gaston tries my patience. So long as he can keep out of sight…it’s not that long, really, is it?” He was trying to convince himself. There was something almost frantic in his words. “I’m sure the time will go by quicker than I realize!”

“Maybe.” She watched him carefully. “But in the meantime you’ve got to take better care of yourself.”

She nudged teacup towards him, and slowly patted his hair. “Drink up, my poppet,” she soothed, as he dutifully nursed the warm drink. “You need it.”

She wished she could get him to tell her what he was hiding. There was clearly something, some part about Gaston’s behavior he didn’t want to admit.

He’d said the other man wasn’t dangerous, though. Or at least, no more than beforehand. LeFou was trusting, and kind, but he was far from foolish – if his former friend had been hurting him, he wouldn’t put up with it. She believed that much.

What then? She supposed whatever it was, LeFou held his tongue because he was embarrassed.

And lord only knew what sort of secrets could pass between two men who’d been inseparable since they were boys.

LeFou was on his second cup of tea and had been encouraged to nibble at a biscuit before he spoke again. He was far less tense, but it only served to reveal a different kind of unhappiness.

His so-called friend, Mrs. Potts could plainly see, was sucking the life out of him.

“I keep thinking back.” He sounded tired. Despondent. “I was so happy, right before he returned, wasn’t I? There was so much I was looking forward to. It almost feels as if it was another life now.”

“I swear, if the Master hadn’t specifically warned us to keep away so we’d stay safe, I’d march right over there and give that man a piece of my mind,” Mrs. Potts fumed. “I’m half made up to do it anyway, orders or no. Does he not see at all, everything you’ve done for him? Can he really be that selfish?”

“Yes,” LeFou returned, blunt. “And oblivious, too. I’d say he can’t help it, but…I don’t think that’s true, anymore. I’ve learned the hard way. Gaston likes being _dumb_ , and not having to shoulder any consequences. He likes being important, but never responsible.”

“I think that’s a wretched way to live,” Mrs. Potts said condemningly.

“Well, he’s reaped what he sowed.” LeFou shrugged. “Nobody likes him, now. He’s lost about everything that mattered to him. I mean,” he hesitated, not seeming to know what to make of his own words, “technically, he’s not even human.”

The concept had some serious weight, she well knew.

Gaston wanted everyone to admire him, to be the center of their village’s world. And now he’d lost his very humanity. He’d paid the ultimate price for thinking so little of everyone but himself.

But there was still something wrong, about the sentiment. Something nagging.

“Let me tell you a thing, love. I spent those years trapped in a body of painted porcelain.” Her fingers curled against her palms, but her voice remained even. It was important, what she had to say. “But I never stopped missing my husband, or caring for our friends, or loving my Chip. There’s more to being _human_ , I think, than any magic can take away from you. I know your feelings are conflicted, so you’ll forgive me: everything I’ve heard makes me feel Gaston was never much human, at the start.”

LeFou’s mouth opened like he wanted to protest. He stopped himself.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admitted, wretchedly. “I want to say he had his good points, once, but I just don’t know anymore. My memories are twisted. And I-”

He put down his cup, bringing hands over his face.

“I feel so stupid,” he said in a mumble. “For ever loving him. For ever _liking_ him. Did I really not see him for what he was?”

“Oh…” Heart breaking on his behalf, she fretted. “There, there, dear. It’ll be all right, I promise.”

She fell silent, because words could do nothing just now. Anyway, it wasn’t what was required.

He needed a moment a regain control as he sat there in borderline defeat, face hidden.

Mrs. Potts reached out, to rub a reassuring touch along one shoulder. Part of her badly wanted to pull him into a hug but she could tell he needed to take this time to himself.

She waited patiently. Awful truth was sometimes people had to break down before they could get up and start moving again. Even it was just for a second.

When LeFou lifted his head back up at last, slowly, he ducked his gaze so to avoid meeting her eyes.

“Thanks,” he murmured. “Sorry. I don’t know what got ahold of me. Guess everything’s been piling up.”

“You shouldn’t have to be alone. You have friends,” she reminded him. “ _Real_ friends.”

“I know.” He nodded, as he absently brushed at his hair moving stray curls from his eyeline. “But I can’t exactly tell them what’s been going on, can I?”

“No.” She frowned. “But everyone will find out, soon enough. You should prepare yourself for that.”

“One day at a time, please. Right now I’m focusing on getting through the rest of the month.”

His gaze landed on the plate of remaining biscuits. He stared guiltily.

“I’ll put those in a sack for you, shall I?” Mrs. Potts said, catching on. “You can finish them at home later. And…share them, if you like.”

“You’re so generous.” He sighed. “I wouldn’t, but every bit helps. I try but I can only stretch my groceries so far. And the shopkeepers are already getting suspicious…”

“For goodness sake, you should’ve said something!”

She felt vaguely horrified none of them realized: poor LeFou was effectively feeding a prisoner out of his own pocket. Having to try and keep it secret. That couldn’t be easy, atop his other worries.

No wonder he’d become so haggard.

“I’ll send a letter back to the castle with Chapeau. I’m sure they can deliver supplies to me, and I’ll slip them to you when you pay me another visit.”

“That’s…” He started to object, but surrendered, throwing up his hands. “Mrs. Potts, I swear. I don’t know how anyone would manage without you.”

“That’s what they all say, sooner or later,” she told him, gentle, but close to smug as she ever got.

*

LeFou left the house belonging to the village potter and his family a short time later, with a burlap bag over one shoulder carried with both hands. Inside were not only the cookies Mrs. Potts had pressed upon him but a half dozen other things as well, odds and ends she’d had lying about the household she’d urged him to take.

As he made his way though the street, Mrs. Potts’ fond farewell still on his mind, LeFou tried not to sigh.

It was clear the older woman had taken him under her wing. He couldn’t deny it pleased something inside him. His own Ma died when he was only about five, and Aunt Prudence hardly found time or inclination to hold him.

It was nice to have someone of a maternal inclination who cared…it was nice to be cared _for_.

But though it seemed to make Mrs. Potts happy enough to fuss over him and LeFou felt better, touched at some long-neglected place in his heart, it also made him vaguely guilty. No one treated him this way in a long time, possibly never; he couldn’t recall experiencing this. It was so unfamiliar.

Normally it was _him_ who looked after others, helping neighbors, seeing to the needs of friends. Going against such habit as it did, it didn’t feel right to draw attention and affection onto himself.

He’d gone such a long way in life without it. Intellectually he knew there was no reason for shame, but it felt inherently wrong to ask now.

And though far from consumed with notions of typical “masculinity” like many of his acquaintance were, willing to admit his weaknesses and emotions, he still had his pride. He was a little embarrassed, the way he’d broken down, demonstrating how overwhelmed he was.

He didn’t blame _her_ for it – she clearly was only trying to help. And he did feel better, he couldn’t deny that either, so at the same time he was gratified. But even so. He was disgruntled with himself.

Something had to give though, he reasoned wearily as he replayed the conversation over his mind. Certainly he’d rather he lost control in front of Mrs. Potts than about anyone else in Villeneuve. She already had some sense of what was going on, and why.

But LeFou couldn’t bear to tell her about what right now he considered the worst of it: that Gaston abruptly decided he was in love with him.

That since the notion entered into his mind he’d gone about _pursuing_ LeFou in an all-too familiar fashion.

It hadn’t even been a week since Gaston’s announcement. He’d spent every moment tormenting LeFou, ever since.

He followed LeFou day and night, peppering him with vague but romantically-worded compliments. He stood there and smiled; showing off those well-cared for teeth, tossing head to catch the light in his raven hair, shoulders straight and chin up with pride. He’d coo and sigh over LeFou in a way designed to draw attention, then preen and pose once he felt he’d got it.

In close quarters it was hard avoiding him to begin with. Gaston had a knack for taking up space, simply by existing. Now though he was interested in far more than merely _existing_ in LeFou’s general vicinity.

He was always looming over LeFou, breathing with enthusiasm how attracted to him he was, how delightful he found his company, the strength of feeling the other evoked in him. No matter what LeFou did, Gaston was over-attentive in exclaiming how well he did it. How good a cook LeFou was, how skillfully he sewed up a shirt, on and on.

And Gaston tried to be helpful…with tasks that drew attention to his own strength and skill. LeFou couldn’t lift a box without Gaston hurrying to take it from him. He stacked logs right outside the back window, carrying ten at a time on his shoulders, grinning and glancing at LeFou as he hefted them up. He’d cleaned his crossbow until it shone so could fire it off the back porch at targets, trying to draw LeFou into watching how well he did.

Of course, virtually all Gaston’s concept of flirtation was focused on himself. He spent far more time drawing attention to his own physique, his appearance, his merits than he did talking about the supposed object of his affection. When he talked it was about how much he pined for LeFou, how pleased he was by him – it was all about what it meant to _him_.

Maybe that was the part most galling. Yes, Gaston was charismatic and knew what angles best set him off looking like a noble knight out of a fairytale. His words while empty and non-specific were eloquent, well-said with right emphasis to make them almost seem like poetry. His technique couldn’t be denied.

But it should be convincing, practiced. Because Gaston had been using the same moves, the same lines on women for years. LeFou watched time and time again as one country lass after another had fallen.

Maybe it would’ve worked on him, once.

It was unpleasant to confess that, even to himself. But he tried to be honest about his limitations.

As the saying went, though, the scales had fallen from his eyes. He could see how hollow Gaston’s charm was, knowing the selfish singlemindedness that lay underneath.

He was a hunter in search of prey, trying to divert himself from his own discontent. With little else in the way of options, why not play with LeFou? He probably took for granted a favorable result, already knowing LeFou’s receptiveness to him.

It stung after everything they’d been through lately nothing had changed. _Nothing_. He’d stand there as Gaston recited words to him he’d heard who knew how many times before – and his so-called best friend evidently thought he was too stupid to notice, or care.

LeFou seethed silently at the insult. He grew annoyed, then simply wearied by sheer repetition. He told Gaston “no” more times than he’d bothered counting, cold and unencouraging.

Every time Gaston bounced back, like it was all a game. He wouldn’t – or couldn’t - understand the rejection was genuine. He simply refused to take “no” for an answer.

LeFou knew he should’ve seen that coming.

He reflected on how Belle endured months of this and decided he really _had_ underestimated her. Maybe she was proud, outspoken, but she must’ve had the patience of a saint.

Of _several_ saints.

He found he didn’t have nearly the same strength under such exasperating conditions. As the days went by it’d seemed to grow worse and worse.

By the time Sunday rolled around he’d been looking forward to mass. Had even half-hoped Pere Robert might indulge in a lengthy sermon.

Alas the minutes seemed to hurry as the priest waxed about understanding, and tolerance, and the strength to be found in united community. When he spoke the words _“love thy neighbor”,_ Stanley had turned to shoot LeFou a discrete wink.

LeFou tried not to squirm, feeling his face warm where he sat in the hard wooden pew.

It’d been a nice reprieve. But whatever good feelings he’d cultivated within himself wore off the moment he returned home. To once again being besieged by Gaston’s unwanted attentions.

In the days that passed since, he’d developed the habit of being away from his house as much as possible. Every chore that needed doing around the village, every farmer with a favor, every odd job to be found – LeFou was there, all eagerness and dedication.

Because anything was better than going home to Gaston.

He even finally got to fixing the roof of the schoolhouse. Never mind the continuing lack of rain meant it made for hours of hot dusty work. Baking directly under the sun, hands and knees covered in tar. Having no choice but to listen as on the ground below him the Headmaster wheezed and complained.

The older man’s words of thanks were grudging, at best, when LeFou was finished. The expression on his face close to a sneer as he counted out the coins they’d previously agreed upon.

LeFou said nothing, just pocketed his payment and left, stopping only briefly at the village fountain to rinse the dirt out of his throat.

Despite his ill temper and a brazen habit of taking a few pints in the middle of the day, the Headmaster was considered a man of some respect and authority around Villeneuve. Like the priest he’d been born elsewhere – moving in to fill a need in the community accorded admiration rather than the mistrust otherwise given to outsiders. He was among the few allowed to be open about his education without being accused of putting on airs. All in all he was considered a pillar of their society, his meager salary compensated by regular invitations to dine with the likes of the mayor and the village silversmith.

LeFou kept a distance, to better hide his lack of fondness.

He tried not to bear grudges. But some memories were harsher than others. And some things he’d suffered in childhood cut straight to the bone.

The Headmaster was not a patient sort, ironic perhaps given his chosen profession. Maybe that was the reason he’d ended up in Villeneuve - where only the previous generation finally admitted changing times demanded their children receive some learning to succeed - rather than a loftier post he would’ve obviously preferred. A believer in the value of superior breeding he looked down on his charges, sons of peasants and tradesmen, assured they’d never amount to much.

Certain pupils bore the brunt of his ill will, more than others. Namely the ones who frustrated him by their failures.

LeFou would be first to admit he’d not been a good student. Ignored at home, harassed constantly by his older cousins and quite a few of the other boys besides, he was meek and nervous: utterly lacking confidence. It made learning anything new and then being called on to demonstrate it before an audience a grueling trial complete with sweaty palms and a constant ill feeling in his stomach.

He tried, truly he did. He did well enough with numbers and sums. He’d made a decent showing learning his alphabet.

But when it came time to turn letters into words, disaster bloomed. Without fail as he stared at the page the marks seemed to squiggle and turn into unfamiliar symbols. He couldn’t make any sense of them.

It grew worse in the schoolroom as tried to shrink down at his desk, the Headmaster looming over him, the others around him whispering and jeering; as he stared helplessly at what he was supposed to read aloud, stumbling and stammering.

The teacher berated every mistake. The other students took out their anger on him for making lessons take longer. It was hard enough for him to try to read as it was. Under such circumstances, the added stress made it impossible.

After one especially bad session, the Headmaster threw up his hands and announced he was going for a walk. No doubt the yelling he’d done wore himself hoarse, and he needed to run out for a drink.

“You can all stay here, in your seats until I get back,” he ordered, voice raising over the moans of protest. “Either until Monsieur Leroux finishes his reading – or you all complete the lines you’ve been assigned to be written. Whichever comes first.”

The way he said this last was a jab, making it obvious which he believed more likely.

The schoolhouse grew deadly quiet in his wake. The poor boy sat there conscious of the hateful stares the rest aimed at him.

“Monsieur Leroux,” another boy scoffed, in a whisper that carried. “More like Monsieur _Le Fou._ ”

The whole group burst into mocking laughter, raucous and ringing.

He sat there feeling like he’d been flayed by humiliation, and he struggled not to cry.

Most of the laughter died down after what felt like too long already. But as the small voices dropped away there was another sound to be heard. From near the back of the room one classmate was still laughing, with louder guffaws of amusement than any other.

The object of unwanted attention had been unable to look behind him before. Now he turned his head, blinking in confused disbelief.

“ _Monsieur Le Fou!_ That’s a good one,” Gaston chortled.

He’d his feet up on the windowsill nearest to his desk, wiping his eyes of tears. Grinning, he clapped his hands.

“I get it! It’s a play on words. Because he’s so amusing, and quick with a joke! Just like a jester!”

The boy who’d given the insult opened his mouth, dismayed, but then swallowed back his correction in unease. The others stared at Gaston in confusion.

He grinned at them all, including his hapless friend, genuinely unaware it seemed of his error.

LeFou _could_ be funny, even then, it was true. But it was mainly as a desperate self-defense mechanism. The only boy who seemed oblivious to him as a constant source for contempt was Gaston – because even then his smaller friend had already become loyal and indispensable to him.

It never occurred easily to Gaston that people might see something differently than he did.

Even then in an unthinking way he was confident and commanding. When they were children that meant others lined up in an instant to do as he said. No one was quick to follow anyone’s lead as a pack of boys was to the biggest one, better at wrestling and spitting and who already knew how to ride a horse. He had them captivated by a mixture of awe and fear too well-blended to differentiate one from the other.

By his reaction what’d been meant as a cruel joke turned into something friendlier, a nickname.

Maybe if Gaston had said nothing the others would’ve called him that a few days, a week, until they grew bored and moved on to other taunts.

But in his simple way for some reason Gaston thought it monstrously clever. He kept calling his friend “LeFou”, and the rest followed. Before long it was as if he’d never had any other name.

By now years later it wouldn’t surprise him if there were folk in the village who knew nothing to call him by but LeFou.

By itself, it wasn’t as if he minded. He didn’t like having his father’s name – the only thing a man he’d never met had given him.

Anyway, there were three other “Jacques” close to his age alone, and it got worse when one counted all of them in Villeneuve. At least this way he was unique.

Nowadays he found though it was hard not to think about it with slight bitterness. Yet another thing in his life that came from his association with Gaston. Yet another thing that’d been shaped by him.

He’d tried to move on, to forge his own destiny. The past shouldn’t matter so much anymore. What was done was done. But it was hard not to look back and think – was there anything about who he’d been over the years, that he didn’t owe to Gaston? Was that _all_ there was to him?

It was a question that nagged heavy on LeFou as he staggered home, fingernails dirty and hair limp with sweat, plucking at a particularly stubborn patch of tar on his trousers.

“Ah, LeFou, there you are! How wonderful to see you back again!”

He stopped still in his tracks, involuntary, as the familiar voice called out.

Gaston, he realized, was outside the house; at an angle where no one from the village would be able to see, fortunately.

LeFou turned to look.

“You were gone so very long, _mon amour_. But it’s all right. I decided to make myself useful, as you can see.”

Gaston beamed from ear to ear. He stood in the middle of the small yard with a hoe in one hand, having been raking through the furrows of the small vegetable garden.

It couldn’t have been easy, hard as the ground had to be – but then, Gaston never had shied from physical labor. In a way he often seemed invigorated by it.

And the labor in this case had been hard. It was obvious, considering he was sweating – and besides his boots and trousers, he wore nothing else.

Gaston tilted his head back, moving a pesky strand of hair out of his eyes. The well-defined muscles of his upper body glistened as he set his fist on his waist, drawing enough air in to make his broad chest expand.

In the bright sun of midday it was easier to see the faint freckles on his neck and shoulders, the dark hair that grew starting at the base of his throat trailing in a line down his stomach.

LeFou debated slapping his own face to stop himself from staring.

There was, of course, no chance this was accidental. Gaston was overtly posing.

And while gardening naked to the waist would’ve been too much an assault on the decorum of any lady he sought to woo properly – well, evidently he’d decided the rules were different for pursuing a fellow man.

His expression was a mixture of smug and cheeky. With feigned obliviousness he commented, brightly:

“Awfully warm out today, isn’t it.”

Wordlessly, LeFou averted his eyes, turned around and went inside the house.

_‘Mon amour’,_ he repeated to himself in his thoughts. He scoffed as he tore off his shoes and dirtied clothes, seeking relief from the dry heat of the day.

Didn’t Gaston have any concept what an insult that particular bit of playacting was?

Though he’d referred to Belle as _‘the woman he loved’_ , he’d shown restraint enough to never call her that to her face. As if underneath his bluster, some part of him had been aware it was a lie. Marked it a line not to be crossed.

LeFou apparently wasn’t so lucky. Gaston too freely professed affection for him, and over the other’s objections merely kept repeating: “But, I _love_ you!”

As if those were magic words that made everything else, every offense, every bit of logic, go away.

LeFou knew from experience that love, on its own, was never enough. It wasn’t some guarantee everything would work out for the best, all worries and cares set aside to be forgotten.

Of course, assuming this “love” Gaston now claimed to feel for him was genuine. Which he knew it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

It was too, too convenient. Gaston realized he also had an interest in men. He was no doubt bored, and lonely, being deprived of the attention he so craved. Everyone else in the village now despised him.

But oh look, there was LeFou. Ever present, ever supportive LeFou, who long had been infatuated by him.

Gaston’s calculations were often mercenary and straightforward. Even _he_ could do such easy math.

Down to his shirt and stockings, LeFou sat heavily on the edge of his bed. Scrubbing his hair out of his eyes with one hand he lifted his head, glancing across to the worn mirror hung on the wall.

Absently he took in his reflection, the familiar sight of his own body and face.

_“A great hunter doesn’t waste his time on rabbits.”_

LeFou shut his eyes briefly as Gaston’s voice echoed inside his head in memory. Again, he scoffed.

The triplets were vain and flighty, that was for certain. But they were far from terrible either. And yet if they weren’t good enough for the likes of Gaston - well.

LeFou had no illusions. Just because he’d wanted something for most of his life, didn’t mean he’d ever thought he was actually going to get it.

He stood abruptly back up again. He got redressed in the same dirtied clothes, not caring in his hurry. Snatching up a basin he headed out the back door, heading for the well.

He needed to wash, he’d decided. A quick bath would help cool his head and get this feeling off his skin.

And if Gaston was still lazing about, standing in LeFou’s way – well he’d throw some cold water on him too.

*

“Truly, you are wonderful,” Gaston exhaled; a tone to make any lover proud. “In a way that even I almost lack the words for. Though God knows I’ve searched for them, the subject revisited over and over in my mind.”

His voice deep with sincerity as he spoke, eyes intent upon that which held his attention.

“You’re a vision to behold. Unique. Superior. Breath-taking.”

Enunciating with great passion he took a step closer to the mirror.

He reached to smooth one side of his hair, as he continued speaking to his reflection.

“I know that times have been a…bit difficult lately. But when I gaze deep into those eyes I’m reminded that together, there’s nothing we can’t accomplish.”

He stood tall with satisfaction, buoyed into further cheer by his words.

And, of course, by the pleasing sight before him.

The mirror was an old thing. It was polished brass, not silver, and any image it cast would always be warped in places. No doubt in its day it’d been an object of some finery, but that’d been at least two generations ago and LeFou seemed to care not much for its upkeep, allowing the frame to become dusty, the surface smudged. Gaston in fact polished it up himself – he hated to see any mirror go neglected.

But then even an older imperfect one such as this could be worthy to him, when it served the task of holding his image.

Gaston beamed with easy confidence and pride as he continued the familiar admiration.

The last few days had been far better, of that there was no doubt.

Even the wolf inside him had become less insistent. Still a weighty presence within, never banished entirely; but no longer restless or pacing, trying to force its way out. It’d been soothed by his lack of agitation, his renewed sense of purpose. It no longer burned with the need to run for it’d accepted the little house as _den_ – the idea of safe, home. Protected.

And even if the wolf couldn’t go hunting – well, Gaston was on the trail of a different prey.

Gone were the worries and despair. The sense of futility regarding his future. His impulses were anchored firmly in the present, having conveniently forgotten about the rest. He’d plenty here and now to distract him.

By the Lord, how good it felt to think well of himself again, to be _happy_.

How nice it was to have a goal. Something to look forward to and work at. So long as there was a clear-cut road before him, he could fixate on it, ignore everything else.

Not that he’d had to work very hard to dedicate himself to this cause. He’d always enjoyed a flirtation, a romantic conquest. He’d joked at times women were among his favorite game to hunt.

This _was_ different though. The prize that awaited him at the end was…far more valuable than anything he’d ever bagged before.

LeFou was special to him. He always had been, even if his steadfast nature meant Gaston often took his presence for granted. But he cared about him; considered him a necessity to his own well-being.

And now that he understood the true nature of his feelings towards LeFou…he felt warmed just by thinking about him. Just being near, close enough to see and smell him, filled him with happiness. Hearing his voice automatically made him smile.

He wanted LeFou. Not just for pleasure, not just to say that he had. He wanted to hold him in his arms. To run fingers through his hair and listen to him breathe. It wasn’t enough to have him, physically - he had to _have_ him: body and spirit and anything else besides.

His own heart had been stolen. It was only fair he be given LeFou’s in return.

Every waking moment, every thought belonged to his _amour_. When the actual person wasn’t around to bestow with attention, Gaston would sit chin in hand staring off into the distance, absent smile on his face. Sighing a little as he contemplated the charms of the dear friend who’d so thoroughly be-spelled him.

Gaston never did anything by half. If he was to be in love, true love, for the first time in his life, then he was to fall in deep and headily; consumed by his desire and conscripted to it.

He felt giddy and light, full of some strong emotion he’d never before experienced. It was almost alarming.

But it was also the most wonderful, intoxicating thing he’d ever felt. So how could he be afraid?

He too was trying to ignore whatever apprehension he might feel at the notion of eventually bedding another man. With any girl, by now he’d given in to picturing what he hoped for when it was the two of them, alone. This however was…another matter.

Truth be told he still wasn’t entirely sure what’d happen once they reached that point, and he hesitated to imagine it.

Not that he couldn’t figure it out, if he tried. He knew how bodies worked, and understood the nature of intimacy. The problem was, any story he’d ever been told involving that kind of coupling was tinged with condemnation and disgust. Details always meant as a thoroughly bad thing. He didn’t want what feelings he had now tainted by that.

Even if he didn’t fully understand what was happening to him, he did understand it to be a positive. Thus he preferred it to remain.

Instead he thought about things he was quite sure were the same between the sexes: caressing, embracing, kissing. Especially kissing – he always did like that. Sometimes that was all he’d get, with a girl he’d invite too much trouble by bedding. He always made it count. It was everything he built towards: the moment when he’d finally stake his claim.

His kiss with LeFou, in retrospect, was so frustrating. It hadn’t been like a proper kiss. There’d been no anticipation. No sweeping conclusion, that sense of realized conquest.

It wasn’t like the first kiss between two people about to embark on a great love affair.  Not like something out of songs or stories. And everything Gaston ever did had to be worthy of a story, or a song.

He wasn’t going to count it, he’d decided. Things were set back to square one, but that was just fine. It meant he could go at it properly, wooing LeFou, until he’d earned that kiss. Ensuring it something to relish as it sealed the fulfillment of mutual desire burning between them.

He was taking for granted there was desire. He knew how angry LeFou was, the things he’d said before. But that was in the past now. He’d more than make up for any mistakes on his part, with how he’d treat him in the future.

Yes, LeFou might’ve had his reasons for upset, but there’d only been friendship between them then. Now Gaston was offering so much more.

He was offering _himself_ , a prize many would covet. One he knew for a fact LeFou already did.

No matter how mad LeFou had been, no matter how resentful, Gaston only had to remind him the way he felt. He’d utmost surety he could do that.

The distraction meanwhile was enjoyable. The days ticked by, Gaston becoming more animated, relishing every moment as he threw himself into his sport with vigor.

What he’d said to LeFou was true: he always did love a good chase. He could even admire a worthy adversary, so long as he remained confident of an impending victory.

LeFou had been putting up quite the opposition, which only amused Gaston even more.

To think, that LeFou would even pretend he could ever grow tired of Gaston’s company! That he wouldn’t enjoy hearing those same words he’d always assured Gaston he was a master of, now with himself as the focus. That he would act as if he didn’t _want_ him!

Truly, his friend’s skill and cleverness in providing good jest knew no bounds.

He was glad though he himself had become such an accomplished lover. That he already knew what to say, what to do, to convince someone of his intentions. To get them to fall for him.

He could rely on things almost out of habit – knowing that his words would be charming, his manner attractive.

If he’d had to actually _think_ it might’ve not gone so well. The things he felt now, they’d no easy words to describe them.

This lightheadedness. This distraction. The way that at times his longing was so sharp it almost became a physical ache within him. He acted composed and confident on the outside because he had to, but on the inside he was overwhelmed. Filled with this strange soft happiness that banished away every pain and care, but still. Overwhelmed.

If he was to try expressing his way through that, putting it honestly into words and actions…why he’d be doomed! He’d falter, struggle, maybe even stammer and blush like a schoolboy. _That_ wouldn’t be charismatic, now would it.

He shuddered with horror at the thought.

Clearly it was best to stick to the tried and true. What he knew worked already. That way guaranteed both dignity and success.

Moving back from the mirror, sated with assurance by his own handsome visage, Gaston gave his reflection a parting wink.

“Until next time,” he promised. “For now…back into the fray.”

He drew air in through his nose, scenting out where LeFou had gone.

He’d taken to moving about quietly as he could, trying to avoid speaking to Gaston entirely. But he’d no chance of hiding from such a dedicated hunter.

He soon found LeFou in the kitchen peeling vegetables.

He glanced up at Gaston’s entrance, shoulders tensing, eyes tired. He said nothing as he returned to his task.

Gaston presumed this meant he wished to listen to his friend speak, and he was happy to indulge him. He considered himself an excellent conversationalist. And as many had noted over the years, including LeFou, he did have a very pleasing voice.

The notion struck him with inspiration, and grinning he sank gallantly onto one knee.

Of course, how could it not have occurred to him? Hadn’t singing together whether at the tavern or out riding been one of their pastimes?

It was only perfect to express his feelings in song. Some swelling ballad, the kind of thing everyone knew the words to and thus more powerful for nostalgic memory, set at a note to best show off his manly baritone.

Over the past week Gaston had peppered LeFou with his best compliments, his most suave lines. Posed in lighting to his advantage and showed off numerous feats of skill and strength. Worn his best clothes and spent even longer than usual on his teeth and hair, ensuring not a speck was out of place. Reminded him of his greatest feats, reminiscing the details in loud enthusiastic retellings.

LeFou had remained as a stone wall to his attempts, impenetrable, unmoved.

No matter though for his resistance didn’t damper Gaston’s feelings, in his stubbornness only growing more excited.

The thought he could possibly fail in his endeavor, eventually, hadn’t signified. No; hadn’t even existed.

Whatever doubt could’ve formed out of another recent spectacular failure in his romantic pursuits – it didn’t matter, as he’d already done his best to forget about _that_.

In light of his new feelings that old infatuation had been nothing. Less than nothing. No point in comparing the two, really. No point in thinking about what’d been once, at all.

It mattered even less now he knew he’d deduced the clear road to success. This was what these previous days had been building up to, he thought, and his heart beat a quick tempo in anticipation.

His eyes fell closed to better focus, one hand pressed over his chest as he began to sing.

This would do the trick. This was the final key to melting the last of LeFou’s resistance. He was sure of it. As he filled his lungs with air he expelled the depth of his emotion in voice with great gusto; seeming to feel as if he expanded with his own eagerness, preemptive pride at his great victory…

Those pleasing thoughts however were cut off, along with his singing, as a sharp pain crashed right between his eyes.

A sound of surprise escaped him. He rubbed his temple with one palm, blinking as he looked around. Spotting the weapon that’d landed beside him, the reality came across in an instant.

Bypassing any verbal attempt to get him to stop entirely, LeFou had thrown a shoe at his head.

Still blinking he looked up to find the other man staring in aghast outrage.

“Are you _mad_?” LeFou hissed. “What’re you thinking, carrying on like that! In the middle of the _day?_ What if somebody else in the village hears you!”

“Your neighbors don’t live that close,” Gaston protested, tone more wounded than he was physically, though he kept hand clasped to his brow.

“You’re very loud, Gaston. As you well know. And you’ve a distinctive voice.” LeFou grumbled as he came closer. His gaze was fixed not on him but the errant shoe lying on the floor. “Even after these past months I’m sure most in the village would hardly have forgotten it.”

“That was the whole point!”

He watched as LeFou moved, disbelieving how he so determinedly ignored him. That LeFou acted untouched, even now. That in fact he seemed more incensed by this latest effort than he was pleased. As if the singing had somehow made things worse.

“You’ve always _liked_ my voice. I thought, if I serenaded you with a love song,” Gaston entreated with wide earnest eyes, “poured my heart out to you with depth of feeling set to melody-”

“Oh, please.” LeFou didn’t even let him finish. “Give me a break.”

He still wasn’t looking at Gaston and his expression was nothing but impatient as he snatched up his wooden-heeled shoe. Turning around he stomped in the direction he’d come from, giving Gaston his back.

He didn’t need to see LeFou’s face though to take in the emotion coming off him. He was decidedly down and tired.

Gaston waited, peering searchingly, trying to find what he was sure had to be there somewhere.

A hint LeFou was weakening. That he was flattered. That he was interested. _Anything_.

Instead as LeFou turned around again, he looked at the object in his hand and gave an unhappy start.

“Oh no,” he bemoaned. “It broke! Cracked right down the middle.” He eyed the shoe hard, clutching it tight in both hands as if he could will it to fix itself. “It’s no good, now…and I _just_ got these!”

His shoulders slumped. He dropped face into one hand, breathing hard and raggedly. His mouth twisted and his eyes were shining.

Gaston’s stomach turned with anxiety. Air leaving him as it dawned that LeFou, pushed to his limits and overcome with frustration, was struggling not to cry.

“LeFou…”

The name left him slow, feeling as if he were trapped underwater.

“Don’t.” Though it was shaky, LeFou’s voice was sharp. “Don’t speak. Don’t say it, don’t say anything, I can’t hear it. I can’t _take it_ anymore.”

He sniffled violently, frowning as he rubbed one side of his face, struggling with himself.

“Why, oh why…Gaston, why do you have to make this so hard?” He shook his head. “Haven’t I sacrificed enough? Haven’t you done plenty of damage already?”

He caught his breath in a weary gulp.

“But you just can’t help yourself, can you. You keep on taking, and taking, and taking. It’s like you don’t even realize.” Head hanging, he muttered, “I’d almost feel sorry for you, if I didn’t have to be the one who keeps shouldering the burden.”

_Burden?_

The word echoed within his skull like a fired shot. Too stunned to feel anger, Gaston’s jaw dropped.

Still on the floor he’d sunk to both knees, sitting back as from his vantage point he stared at the other.

He found himself remembering from before, when he’d belatedly realized his behavior, his mistakes, might’ve pushed LeFou too far. He thought he’d learned from that. But could it really be that this time, while he was making up for it – somehow, was what he was doing in fact pushing LeFou _away?_

Because he could see this much: LeFou wasn’t acting like someone who was happy, or in love.

Instead he was acting like someone whose life had been made utterly miserable.

He’d thought it bad before, watching LeFou be angry with him. Shaken to his core by such unexpected behavior from someone he’d known most his life. Feeling guilty and conflicted, not liking he could be the cause of it. Not liking to see LeFou of all people made to be that way.

But this? Making him sad? Making him wretchedly unhappy?

This, this was so much worse.

Discomfort wriggled inside him. He felt sick. It took a long moment to realize he had the staggeringly uncharacteristic urge to shrink down and hide. That he wanted to run from this, run away from what he’d done.

But he couldn’t move. His face felt so hot it’d gone straight past to cold again. He couldn’t feel his legs, the rest of his body too heavy to so much as twitch.

The wolf within him paced and whimpered. Wanting to gnash its teeth, tilt head back to give a concerned protective growl.

LeFou was pack, LeFou was… _his._ His to look after. He should never be hurt, not if they – not if Gaston had anything to say about it. He wanted to strike back, punish anything that could ever make LeFou feel that way.

But what was he supposed to do when the cause of it was himself?

He wanted to say he was sorry, because he was. But he swallowed back the words. The last time he’d apologized LeFou hadn’t believed him. There wasn’t any point.

He sat where he was, filled with remorse and discontent. All he could do was watch LeFou helplessly.

Helpless. Him. _Helpless._ But he didn’t know what to do, even as he badly wanted to do something. Anything. To make it better, to change the way things were.

Instead he stayed on the floor mutely, overcome by the unique agony of longing to comfort the one he felt so much love for yet being unable to do so.

The sniffling faded eventually as that gleam left LeFou’s eyes. Absently he scrubbed his face to remove traces of whatever escaped.

Gaston wished that meant he could pretend it hadn’t happened. Once evidence was gone, it was easier to believe it never existed.

Normally he’d little difficulty putting things behind him and forgetting. But this time…this time felt different. The knowledge lingered, haunting him.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do about this.” LeFou sighed. Glumly he looked to his broken shoe again, now holding it in both hands, turning it over. “The only other pair I have are so old, and on the verge of giving out anyway.”

Gaston was reluctant to speak. The air between them was still fraught by accusation, the sense of it hanging.

Before he’d assume LeFou giving up the subject meant he didn’t care anymore. Now he understood it wasn’t so simple. It meant more he thought there was no point in talking on it.

Under the circumstances, Gaston couldn’t help feeling that was much worse.

“You can have a replacement pair made for you, then.” Instead of suggesting dismissively, making light of the situation, he tried to be tentatively hopeful.

LeFou shot an exasperated glance. “I _just_ ordered these from the cobbler,” he repeated, stressing. “I got them the same day you came back. They shouldn’t need replacing so soon. I wasn’t planning on it.”

Gaston hesitated.

He knew what most in the village would think: that LeFou didn’t have the money. He lived such a simple life, not able to grow enough on his small property to keep himself fed. He’d had to supplement his income by becoming a jack of all trades.

He often had ready francs on hand, which was surely odd to some as the countryside tended to be poor in currency – but LeFou’s only extravagances were in drinking and other forms of entertainment. Everything else he bartered for. Or traded for with work.

Most assumed LeFou was impoverished. And to go only by the means he chose for himself, he was. He mended and washed his own clothes rather than sending them out. He never bought anything new unless needed for practical reasons. He didn’t own anything fancy, anything expensive.

Gaston was the only person who knew the truth. That late aunt of LeFou’s had left him more than her house and its old furniture.

He cleared his throat. Adopted his most reasonable tone.

“LeFou, we both know, if you had to…it’s not as if you couldn’t _actually_ afford it.”

LeFou lifted his head and scowled.

“I’ve told you before. I’m not dipping into that for little things,” he insisted. “It’s only for emergencies.”

“Well, your shoe is broken, you need a new one, and clearly it seems you didn’t have the money already laid aside,” Gaston remarked. “Wouldn’t you call that an emergency?”

LeFou’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he retorted, blunt.

Gaston couldn’t help but sigh. “The principle of thing”, as the other put it - he didn’t understand why LeFou was so strangely stubborn about not spending his inheritance. Why he didn’t want anyone to know his hidden hoard even existed.

Like always though he let the subject drop. It was distasteful and boring to think about money. Businessmen were some of the dullest people in the world, he’d found. As was anyone who wanted to make small talk about things like taxes and percentages and utter nonsense that only existed as numbers any man could make up on a page.

Gaston rarely even asked how much a thing cost. If he liked it, it was usually worth any price. He signed bills of sale in a flourish without looking and when he had coins he’d leave uncounted fistfuls to settle his tabs.

Not that he usually had money on him. Villeneuve folk were willing to help neighbors they liked – and for most of his life, everyone had liked Gaston. Any laundress would add his washing to her pile as a favor when he complimented her. The baker and the fishmongers would say he could pay the next time, it was no trouble. The tailor gave him an excellent discount. And he always had a friend nearby that would be more than happy to cover him for one drink, two, a meal, or some little item he needed.

He never bothered with thought of paying anyone back, either. If it even occurred to him, he figured it’d be an insult to their spirit of generosity.

After all, who wouldn’t be honored to say they’d done him a favor?

“Anyway,” LeFou went on, voice closing off again, “it isn’t about the money. I’d still have to go in to have another pair made.”

“And?” Gaston didn’t understand.

LeFou clenched his teeth. He breathed in once and then out, through his nose, and fixed Gaston with a glare.

He recoiled, wounded. What had he done _this_ time? Why was it so wrong that he’d asked?

“Because, it will look strange,” LeFou forced out, after a moment. “But more than that. I know what the cobbler will say, when he sees I’ve managed to break a shoe so soon. I know _exactly_ what he’ll say.”

His tone was impatient, grating, as he kept giving Gaston that look. As if he should know this already.

“He’ll make a joke. Some clever _bon mot_ about how, oh, it he supposes it shouldn’t be too surprising! Of course I’d be hard on my shoes, how could I not – when they have to carry so much extra weight!”

His voice was thin and intense with repressed anger.

Gaston felt struck harder than when he’d been throwing things at him.

“He…wouldn’t.” He was bewildered. Both at how convinced LeFou was, and how bothered by it he seemed.

“He would. He will. They always do. Everyone does.” Taking one last look at the broken shoe, he shook his head. “I can’t believe that you’ve really never noticed.”

“I…” Gaston faltered.

Maybe it was true, people tended to make joking remarks about LeFou’s appearance sometimes. He never paid attention to how often.

Anyway, did it matter? He knew it was in jest. He was sure LeFou never minded, because he always laughed right along.

 “But they don’t…mean anything by it,” he stated, watching LeFou’s face with curious unease. “It’s only in fun!”

“It’s the same ‘fun’, over and over again. At _my_ expense. I try to be a good sport, I do. It’s what I have to put with, I’ve accepted that. But still. I just so get _tired_ of it.”

He stood and glanced back at Gaston. Wearied and resigned.

“I suppose that _you_ would never understand.”

Gaston gave a strained chuckle, not knowing what to say. “What is that supposed to mean?”

LeFou didn’t respond. He only shook his head again, and silently walked away.

Gaston crawled forward on his hands, staring after him, on the verge of lunging to catch LeFou by his waistcoat and tug him back. Alas he moved when it was too late. Once more, he was left alone.

Alone, and struck by the most unexpected, most alarming notion.

LeFou was hilarious, and cunning, and charming, and adorable. He was one of the most talented people in the whole village. One of the most hardworking men. About everyone enjoyed his company.

And yet still it nearly seemed, as if LeFou himself…didn’t know that.

Proud as he was it never occurred to Gaston before, that a man could go through life with doubts as to his own self-worth.

But for a moment there he could’ve sworn LeFou had been on the edge of calling himself unattractive.

*

When he went to sleep that night Gaston had another dream.

He was back at the castle, moving about as on the night he’d led the village to attack it.

But everything was deathly silent this time. There was no sign of anyone, none of the enchanted objects either.

Everything was dark. The torch he held made no difference. Nothing could penetrate the heavy shadows. All he could see was the winding staircase within the tower. The steps and area right in front of him. He climbed upward for what felt like an eternity, feeling the weight of his pistol in his other hand as he kept at his search for the monster.

He climbed, and climbed. His way cast in flickering light, footfalls echoing where his boots met stone.

He couldn’t tell how much time was passing. He’d no real choice, so he kept climbing.

At last he reached the top.

This wasn’t the castle he remembered. There were no turrets or bridges. Everything was a flat empty expanse, an impossibly open space that made no sense. He seemed to be standing in a featureless void with nothing but a black starless sky above him, and a sense of the ground being very far below.

He turned and suddenly, standing a short distance away from him, there was LeFou.

In a twist of logic commonplace in dreams, Gaston no longer felt he’d been hunting down a monster. Clearly, he’d been looking for his friend.

His hands were empty. A broad smile split his face as he moved towards the other.

“LeFou! There you are! I was afraid I’d never find you.”

LeFou watched him approach and didn’t smile back.

“What would that matter?”

Gaston went still in confusion at that response.

“Why, I was worried about you, of course! But it’s all right, now,” he reasoned, still smiling faintly. “We’re together again. I’m here to protect you.”

LeFou’s expression hadn’t changed. He gazed at Gaston aloofly, something almost cool in his eyes.

“Is that what you think? You’re a protector, now?”

Gaston tried to ignore the sense of unease growing within him.

“I always _have_ been,” he insisted. “I’m the people’s hero. The one they look up to, that they need.”

“Nobody needs your help. Least of all me,” LeFou retorted. There was a ring of disapproval in his voice. “I was getting along just fine without you. In fact, I was better with you gone.”

The air around them felt too still. Too cold. It was the eerie pall that struck in the moments before a storm began. Alarm began to seize Gaston from within, as if his bones vibrated with warning.

He had to – they both had to get away. Something terrible was about to happen, if he couldn’t get LeFou to take back his words.

But surely, surely…he didn’t mean them?

“How can you say that?” Reaching out he made to grab hold of his arm. “I-”

As he latched onto LeFou’s bicep though, he froze at the sight of his own hand.

Before his eyes it was twisting. Changing.

Suddenly his skin sprouted fur, thick and dark. His fingers grew long, padded like paws. Sharp claws caught on the fabric of LeFou’s coat.

Gaston stared in wide-eyed horror.

“No,” he protested hoarsely, frantic. “ _No._ What’s…what’s happening to me?”

Prying his gaze away he looked to LeFou for aid, for answers.

But when he met the other man’s eyes all he saw was distaste and condemnation.

“What,” he asked, enunciating his words with meaning: “Did you honestly think I’d want you?”

The bottom dropped out of Gaston’s stomach.

Then the ground gave way under his feet.

“No,” he pleaded, gaping at LeFou in terror. “No, no, please-”

Too late. He was falling.

He fell and fell, darkness swallowing him, his words lost in a desperate scream.

Gaston bolted upright as he woke, tangled in the blanket, gasping for air, covered in cold sweat and shaking.

It took him a moment to remember where he was. To awaken fully, and return to reality. Leaning forward he took head in both hands, fingers twisting in his hair as he grasped his crown, pulse racing.

These nighttime terrors he kept having, they were more alarming for how foreign an experience it was to him. Never had he known such existential dread.

But these dreams…they needed to _stop_ , he thought to himself: with desperate stubbornness that it was possible by his own conviction. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take.

Why, if he didn’t know any better – it was almost as if some part of him felt he might not be _worthy_ of LeFou.

He didn’t dare try returning to sleep. Through the windows the sun barely began leaving streaks of light across the sky. Though it was painfully early even for him, he got up and dressed.

He carried his boots in hand to muffle his tread as he left the bedroom and crossed through the house.

LeFou was still fast asleep, stretched across the sofa, laying somewhere between his belly and his side. His cheek pressed against a cushion, mouth partway open.

Gaston stopped to look down on him. An unbidden smile crept over his face. He took in the soft steady sound of his breathing, the contrast the fringe of his eyelashes made where they lay against the rosiness of his cheeks.

A stray lock of hair slipped so it fell between LeFou’s eyes, and Gaston felt his hands itching to gingerly brush it back into place. Or pull that blanket up to better tuck him in.

He didn’t though, for fear of disturbing the other’s rest. He could see now the shadows beneath LeFou’s eyes had grown since last he really looked, and in addition to that silly mustache the stubble on his face thickened from a few days’ careless shaving.

Gaston simply remained where he was, and drank in the sight of that familiar face, and smiled.

A gentle balm came over him, a warmth opening in his chest, easing away much anxiety from his night.

He felt such _fondness_ for LeFou – there really was no better way to describe it. It was almost absurd to rank that alongside desire or admiration. But he felt so comfortable around him, a way he never had with anyone else, and it gave him such an easy feeling of contentment.

He liked feeling this way, he decided; as if there were one person in the world he could fully relax around, as if he’d nothing to prove.

Love, as he’d heard it described time and time before, had seemed to be a thrilling thing. Words about racing hearts and desperate feelings, throes of excitement, struggles akin to a wrestling match. He’d thought real love was meant to get the heart pumping, lively as any battle.

He didn’t know it could feel so…peaceful. A kind of lingering, every moment worth being savored.

Gaston folded his arm across the back of the sofa, leaning forward and resting his chin on it to better watch over LeFou’s sleep. Under his breath he exhaled, a silent sigh, both longing and affectionate.

So close, he was…so close to the one he wanted, and yet so very far.

It occurred to him: he had never been _alone_ before.

In early childhood his parents had been there to see to his every need, doting on their perfect child with the attention they made sure he knew he deserved. Once he’d been old enough to walk to the village he’d had any number of friends, boys eager to follow him around and play whatever games he wanted. Through his youth, into his adulthood, always the same. He was constantly surrounded, people to laugh at his jokes and cheer his feats, the center of every crowd.

And throughout, for so many years it was nearly past remembering, there was always LeFou.

It was unpleasant to think there was no one he could count on. That he’d have nobody to keep him company anymore. Gaston had little idea what to do without an audience to play to.

The puzzled unease remained awhile longer, then forcefully he nudged it aside.

He _did_ still have LeFou, he reminded himself. He only had to win him back over. Even in midst of his anger, he’d admitted he still cared for Gaston. That he would’ve much rather they remain friends.

And they were going to become much more than friends, now. Gaston was determined.

Though he was going to have to pull back. First he’d have to make up for how things went the day before.

A minor misstep, then. He’d take a gentler approach until he got LeFou to admit what still lay within his heart. Then he’d resume his courtship in full.

He nodded to himself, then made his way out the door.

It was odd to see Villeneuve empty and quiet. Odder still to think this was becoming commonplace to him. Walking about only during these times when not another soul was to be seen. Climbing over rooftops, jumping past gutters and scrabbling for footholds among the eaves. Skulking about in the place that was supposed to be his home – his _domain_ – like some thief.

That unease prickled along the back of his neck, and his mind threatened to return to the path of before. The notion of isolation, of social outcast – of loneliness.

To being alone, truly alone, with no company and no distraction from his thoughts.

Gaston worked hard his whole life not to have thoughts. Pleasures, instincts, urges, that was better. Easy to understand and satisfy. But now, _thoughts._ He couldn’t seem to get away from them. It was disturbing to uncover how swiftly they’d creep up on a man who’d nothing to avoid them with.

He shook his head hard, wishing he could stop by the well for cold water to splash his face in.

Even at these hours so close to dawn though there were signs of activity. Almost deserted, but the town was never fully still: such was country village life. The baker and his apprentices hard at work, getting the first batch of loaves ready for the market. Some of the vendors already setting up in the square.

Gaston paused on the roof he’d ascended, grasping the weathervane for balance as he peered off.

In the area where those that could afford servants lived he made out the actions of housekeepers as they brought in coal, shook out linens and emptied chamber pots. Where the houses were smaller, though, crowded near the village center, shutters remained bolted and windows dark.

Did he dare? Yes, he decided: he did. For one solitary hour at most, let him walk those familiar cobbled streets and pretend nothing had changed.

He was Gaston of Villeneuve, back from an early morning hunt, strolling through the town where he was universally adored.

He picked his path with resolution. Taking a breath, head held high, he jumped to the small alley out behind the tavern and landed on his feet.

And directly in front of Old Henri, who was sitting on the ground there with his back against the wall.

Gaston paused, considering the other.

The old man was gaping with wide-eyed recognition, but those eyes already held a distinct blur. A bottle was clutched in one hand. Evidently, Old Henri had started his usual libations early.

Shoulders relaxing, Gaston glanced around to confirm there was no one else, and then gave the man a conspiratorial look as he lifted a finger to his lips to indicate he should keep quiet.

Old Henri seemed to have no trouble doing that. Though his mouth hung slightly open as he continued staring.

The hand holding his bottle was at end of an outstretched arm, and as it remained there Gaston looked to it.

“Ah, don’t mind if I do,” he said cheerily, taking it for an offering.

The bottle slipped loosely enough from his fingers, and Gaston knocked back a hearty swig. The liquid within was cheap by the taste and he preferred not to think how the village drunk came by it, but ale was ale.

He handed it back over and Old Henri took it dumbly, not seeming aware what he did.

“There’s nothing like some early refreshment, eh?” He grinned, though the other remained most politely mute, his blank and befuddled expression unchanging. Which was perfectly fine by him. “ _Adieu_ to you, then.”

He turned and made way on the narrow streets, stride confident, whistling softly.

Behind his back Old Henri stared after, face paling beneath the dirt that clung to his beard, looking like he’d spotted a ghost.

The trip to his cabin took less time since he wasn’t climbing over the village. Besides he wasn’t loaded down with a sack full of necessities. The only thing he’d needed to retrieve was one item, one he hadn’t considered important when planning for a lengthy visit to another’s house.

Money.

He’d little enough lying about. Like most of the villagers he handled affairs by trading, rather than dealing in burdensome coins. But he’d searched every corner, scraping up every _sou_ he could find. The total amount, placed in a little drawstring pouch, would more than cover LeFou’s shoes.

Perhaps it wouldn’t save him the actual difficulty of replacing them, but it would solve part of the problem. The only part Gaston had power to do anything about.

On his return path however – once more traveling aloft - he stopped somewhere halfway between the church and LeFou’s house, settling down with legs hanging over the side of a rooftop.

His face scrunched deeply with thought as he frowned. It didn’t feel like he was doing enough.

He wanted to do something special for LeFou. A visible testament to his ardor. But money wasn’t _special_. It was practical – he wanted to be romantic.

The coins, he deduced, were merely a favor. A repayment. But what he wanted to do for LeFou was give him a present.

He pulled out the cloth pouch, weighing it in his palm. His frown deepened.

What could he get for him, anyway? Even with less limited resources, it wasn’t as if entering a store was an option. Though, perhaps if he bribed Old Henri-

No. No, even he could see that was a bad idea.

He gazed at the hanging sign of the patisserie with frustration. Chocolates; that would’ve been _easy_. Women adored chocolate, and luckily so did LeFou. The only other common gift he was used to giving was…

He trailed off, reconsidering, and turned his head the other direction again to the square.

Though it was pale and still out, barely daylight, and the market had far from started the flower vendors had set up beneath their usual tent. There were sprays in baskets and already arranged bouquets, fresh blooms giving off a sweet scent his wolfish nose could pick up even where he was.

Best of all no one was nearby watching. Madame Posey and the rest had done their work, then retreated to the central well to wash their aprons and gossip. Backs to their wares, they trusted Villeneuve’s small-town nature to protect against theft.

Gaston crouched down, gaze narrowing as he smirked. He was going to have to time this just right.

“Hortense was saying to me yesterday she’d wager her best bonnet we’ll have us a new little princess or princeling afore this time next fall,” one of the vendors was telling her companions. “And you know what, I reckon she’s right.”

“Hmmph!” Another woman scoffed, shaking out her apron to dry it faster. “Hortense is a silly romantic. Sees any man and woman together and always gets these notions in her head. Maybe if she paid more attention to her own affairs, her husband wouldn’t have a case of the wandering eyes…”

“I heard that the Prince and his wife are saying they want to wait at least a year before even _trying_ to have children,” a third woman interrupted. “Belle wants to focus on that project of hers. The new school?”

“Ah yes, the school for girls.” The same woman scoffed again. “Now there’s a daydreamer’s idea if I ever heard one. Well, it’s one thing to plan and talk, another to contend with reality. Mark me, it won’t be long before she gives it up.”

“Oh no, I don’t think so,” the third woman mused.

“She has her husband’s full backing,” the first woman who spoke put in, rather sharply – she was smarting from the slight against her friend, Hortense. “They’re said to have already picked out a space in the old Guillory land.”

“Ha! They can contend with the curse, then!”

“There’s no such thing as the Guillory family curse. I can’t believe anyone’d ever put stock in that.”

“You go on and ask the Guillory family what they think of that. Only you can’t, seeing as they’re all long dead.”

While the two women bickered, their quieter companion glanced back over at their carts and tables.

For a second she thought she heard something. A quick rustle. As she turned her neck she glimpsed a flash of black and red.

She blinked, and it was gone. Only a tiny breeze must’ve gone by, leaving the awning of their tent swaying.

Shrugging, she returned to speaking with the others.

Back safely concealed atop a roof once more, Gaston examined the bouquet he’d taken with a pleased grin.

It was a brilliant thing, the brightest blues and yellows and lavenders. Wide beautiful blossoms, arranged with smaller sprigs to set them off and everything tied up with a bow.

LeFou was going to love it. He’d never had qualms admitting he enjoyed things like flowers, unlike most men – utterly complacent in what it might make others think about his masculinity. Somehow appearing the more secure by his indifference. It was a thing about him Gaston almost envied.

Almost. Seeing _Gaston_ had no real reason to envy anyone.

He was careful as he tucked the bouquet under his arm. Of course he’d left behind some coins in its place on the table. Three _sous_ , probably a fraction what it was worth – but with the business he’d brought Madame Posey over the years, he figured they were even.

By the time he returned to LeFou’s house the other was awake, dressed, and folding up the blankets he’d used the night before as he tidied the parlor.

Gaston came in the back way, pulling the door shut as he kept the flowers concealed behind him. He set the bag of money on a side table, out of sight, figuring they’d come to that later.

“Ah, LeFou,” he remarked as he walked towards him, “good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough.” His voice was closed off, head down.

“Excellent. I’m happy to hear it.” Gaston smiled and cleared his throat. “There’s a certain matter I wanted to speak with you on.”

LeFou stilled, his face suspicious. “Oh? And what would that be?”

“Well it’s just…” He paused. Realizing how awkward this was he wasn’t certain how to begin. “It’s something you said, yesterday. It troubled me.”

“I said many things to you yesterday, Gaston. Most of which by now you’ve heard from me several times.”

“Not this one, though. It concerned…yourself.” He fidgeted, glanced to his boots, then finally managed to look him in the eye. “LeFou, I want you to understand: you _do_ deserve me. Utterly. You shouldn’t have any doubt.”

LeFou’s voice went completely flat. “What,” he dragged out.

“I mean it,” he assured him, vaguely aware he wasn’t saying this quite right. “It’s just that sometimes you seem so convinced that we don’t belong together, and I was starting to suspect…that the reasoning behind that it, well, had something to do with the way you see yourself.”

“The way I see myself,” LeFou repeated, blankly. At least he wasn’t avoiding Gaston’s eyes anymore.

“Those remarks you made, regarding what people say about you. How it bothers you what they think. I never realized you cared! I’ve always thought of you as nothing but confident. That’s why we work so well together,” he gestured between them, “two confident fellows without a care in the world! How could you let the thoughts of some little people who don’t know you so well get to you? And here I’d no idea.”

LeFou rubbed the bridge of his nose. “It doesn’t bother me, what they think. I don’t internalize it. I don’t feel ashamed of myself. It bothers me what they _say,_ and that I have to _hear_ it.”

“So then why put up with it? Why not tell them to stop?”

“Because then they know and that makes it worse.” He looked at Gaston and laughed humorlessly. “You really don’t get it. Of course you wouldn’t. No one has ever gotten away with insulting you.”

“No.” Gaston blinked, unsure what this had to do with anything. “Of course not.”

“Sometimes,” LeFou drew himself up, breathing in, “you have to just swallow it down. You have to accept slights here or there, even if it stings. All right? I have to pick my battles; otherwise it’d be exhausting. Some of it I laugh off, when I can, the rest I try to ignore. It’s how I get by.”

He picked up the folded blankets, draping them over his arms. “It’s not always easy but that’s the way life is.”

Gaston was at a loss as he watched him. “But why think it has to be that way for you at all?”

“Because I’m a realist.”

Now they approached the crux of the matter. Gaston swallowed, expression pained. “LeFou,” he asked, incredulous, “do you think that you’re…ugly?”

LeFou stopped. He was quiet and thoughtful as he set the blankets back down. “Ugly,” he repeated, in a detached manner. “No, I don’t think that I’m _ugly_. Not like that. But I am…”

Turning Gaston’s way LeFou waved a hand, gesturing over his own self. Seeming to think whatever his point was he made it by this indication.

“I’m no one’s first pick.” His smile was small and resigned. He shrugged.

Gaston felt stricken. “You’re _mine_ ,” he insisted softly.

LeFou’s smile grew brittle, his eyes tired. “Right. Sure.”

“But you are! I mean that.” He closed the distance between them. “You always have been! Even when we were friends, I always thought you were the best.”

He smiled encouragingly.

“Why, haven’t I been saying for years how it made no sense that you didn’t have-”

LeFou glared. Recalling how that sentence usually ended had become a sore spot Gaston stopped to clear his throat, hard.

“- _someone_ ,” he filled in, quickly, “of your own? How no one else could’ve sought you out I’ll never understand. The world is unfair, if someone like you could be left lonely.”

LeFou had turned away, shaking his head. But Gaston fixed him with the might of his focus, standing tall to recapture his attention.

“But in any case it does mean that you’re still here. And here am I. What’s meant to be finally can. And I think that you are _beautiful_ ,” Gaston enthused. He produced the bouquet, offering it to him. “As beautiful…as these.”

LeFou was silent as he looked at Gaston, at the flowers in his hand. No doubt it made an effectively charming tableau. Gaston gave him his best charismatic smile, teeth flashing.

Wordlessly LeFou reached out taking the present and Gaston’s heart soared with pride.

And then viciously LeFou brought the flowers over his knee, snapping the stems in half.

He tore into the rest with the same violent energy, ripping leaves and petals apart, destroying it.

Gaston watched dumbfounded. “Wh-what…what are you doing?” he cried.

LeFou threw the ruined, sadly tattered bundle back at him, hitting him in the chest. The flowers fell to the floor and Gaston stared down.

“Unbelievable,” LeFou seethed. “You really are just… _unbelievable_. It never fails! Every time, every single time. I give in one step, you take a whole stride! Everything I’ve ever done for you, and you treat me like anyone else!”

“What?” Gaston objected.

“Like one of your _trophies!_ ” LeFou spun away to pace in his ire, before circling back at him. “Like…like I’m nothing but another empty-headed, fawning admirer who’s only waiting for the chance to fall down at your feet!”

“That’s not true at all. Why, I-”

“You have no respect for me at all! You don’t even _see_ me; you just see some reflection back of your own glory.” LeFou declared, embittered, “Something _you_ want. Something that _you_ can use.”

“No. You couldn’t be more wrong.”

Why was it when he needed it, his voice was suddenly failing? So shocked was he by LeFou’s accusations he grew quieter and quieter, having trouble speaking at all.

It didn’t matter though because LeFou wasn’t listening.

“You, you, you: that’s the only thing that matters to you! The only thing that ever has!” He shoved at Gaston, hitting him in time to the staccato blows of his words. Pushing the other away. “The rest of the world just doesn’t exist past you and your enormous ego, warping everything around you, sucking the good out of everything you touch! The only thing _ugly_ around here is all on _your_ insides!”

He stood his ground, scowling, eyes flashing and dark.

Gaston stumbled back, mutely incensed. Yet almost too disturbed to grow angry.

Was he dreaming again? Was this another nightmare?

Because there it was again: the feeling as if the ground was being torn away from under his feet.

LeFou raked curls back from his forehead, breathing heavily with the fervor of his emotions. “You act so surprised that no one else wanted me?” He grew sarcastic. “That I could be left all alone, just waiting for you to stroll back in and pick up where you left off? Well guess what. I wasn’t waiting for you, and I wasn’t alone! Someone else _did_ notice. Someone else _does_ want me!”

He gestured with both hands this time.

“But do you know why I’m not with him, right now? Because _I’m here, with you!_ I have a chance at happiness waiting for me, and I set it aside! Because I had to go and be _your friend_ , first! I took this on willingly, helping you, making trouble for myself, and all I get in return is more and more misery!” He was practically shouting. “I could be having dinner with Stanley, right now, but no! Instead I’m stuck with you!”

_“Stanley?”_ Gaston repeated, outraged. “The modiste’s nephew? _That_ Stanley?” He spluttered. “You mean to tell me you would honestly rather be with that foppish little pipsqueak, than with me? Why…you’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you. They say he wears women’s clothing!”

“So what if he does?” LeFou retorted, hands on his hips. “He happens to look a lot better in a dress than _you_ ever would.”

Gaston frowned peevishly, torn between two strong impulses. He hated to hear anyone could be better than him at anything, but he certainly didn’t want to think about wearing feminine clothes.

LeFou took advantage of his confusion. When he spoke again his voice retreated to normal volume, grown cold with disapproval.

“You’re a criminal, Gaston, and you still can’t even see it. The most you’ve done with your life is harm others. You’ve used up every ounce of goodwill anyone ever had. Everything that’s happened to you, you brought it on yourself. But instead of learning any lesson still all you do is complain.”

LeFou drew in a breath, lifting his head.

“After what you’ve done and the way you’ve been, is it any wonder people would come to hate you?”

As furious as Gaston was – the most curious thing was happening. He didn’t feel like lashing out. Indeed, he didn’t even think he could move.

His lungs ached with effort of drawing air. His bones felt brittle and frozen. He could feel his fingers clenched into fists at his sides, his limbs turned to lead.

When he’d been rejected by Belle, denied by her father, he took it as an insult. Enraged the only thing he’d wanted to do was strike back, prove them wrong, seek vengeance for his wounded pride.

But LeFou’s rejection – he found he wasn’t just offended. It _hurt_.

God, it hurt. Like something crushing him from the inside. The joy he’d taken before turned to ash, feelings of failure and worthlessness shooting through his veins like poison.

The person he cared about most to where it’d seemed his heart was beating in time to LeFou’s name, the one whom being near had filled his existence with this perfect sense of meaning…

He didn’t only not want Gaston. He didn’t only not feel the same way. He…he…

What was it the version in his dream had said?

_I was better with you gone._

“LeFou,” he managed to get out, “what are you saying?” His mouth dry, he had to lick his lips to keep going, slowly. “Do you mean to tell me…do you _hate_ me now? Is that it?”

LeFou said nothing. He only looked back at Gaston evenly, mouth set, head held upright.

The lack of response was its own answer, echoing in the awful silence between them. It hit Gaston like a dagger to the chest.

Those fluttering feelings that’d filled him with light died instantly, crying out in pain and betrayal. He’d forgotten the other side to those stories of love: the suffering of a broken heart.

He could never have prepared for this. It was _excruciating_.

He was falling. He was. He could still feel his feet on the wooden floor but he was falling all the same, sucked into a blackness, an emptiness that drained every feeling away.

LeFou was his best friend, the other half to him, the one he felt safe around. The one who always restored him to greatness whenever he stumbled. Who reminded him everything would be all right. LeFou was supposed to look through him and know him, like nobody else.

And now everything LeFou saw when he looked at Gaston, it made him hate him. Not love, not admire, not care about or tolerate or even pity. Hate.

LeFou hated him. The man he loved _hated_ him.

And even as Gaston struggled to process it, mental voice trying feeble words of protest…

Inside him the wolf lifted its head, muscles surging as it absorbed his pain; beginning to gnash its fangs and struggle and howl.

*

“Ow, watch it!” Elise complained. “Your feathers are poking me!”

“You’re only jealous because I got to them first,” Eliana retorted, not glancing from where she dabbed on her face in the mirror. “And now my hair looks so much prettier than yours.” Elise gave her a sullen look and pouted.

“Ooh! Would you two please move!” Eloise squealed impatiently. Bouncing on tiptoes, she finally attempted shoving her sisters apart. “I can’t see!”

The three fell into noisy arguing as they pushed for best place before the largest mirror in the shop.

Stanley didn’t pause in sweeping the floor, giving a private roll of his eyes.

It’d been a heated half an hour. First the sisters had put on their powder, rouge and kohl. Then they’d squabbled over how to arrange their lace patches, fake beauty marks. Then they’d fought over who got what decorations and, finally, argued over their hairstyles.

For once they’d ended with something markedly different from one another. Eliana had a bouffant of tightly stacked curls pinned with a spray of feathers. Eloise had a twist with a bow trailing an elaborate braid. And Elise had curls loosely arranged into two piles on either side of her head.

Since they still clung to half-mourning their dresses were a faded lavender hue, trimmed with quantity of lace and ribbons in grey and black.

They were getting bored, Stanley could tell. Limited color options made it so hard to accessorize.

“Girls, girls, honestly.” Madame Mayette strolled in with a chiding sound. “Such bickering really is not becoming in an attractive young lady.”

As her daughters fell apart and got out of her way, she leaned near the mirror and checked how her bonnet was seated atop her hair.

“Especially one who’s on the hunt for her future.”

“You know we’re not receiving suitors yet, Mother,” Eliana reminded her.

At her side Eloise nodded fervently. “It’s only been three months.”

Madame pursed her lips. “Three months is quite some time, considering none of you was affianced officially,” she reminded in turn, crisply.

Eloise’s face screwed up, causing Elise to turn and grasp her arms in support, even as she held back sniffles herself.

“Don’t cry, no! Your make-up will run.”

Nodding and gulping, Eloise tipped her head back, struggling to contain the tears. Elise rubbed her back encouragingly, biting the inside of her cheek. Eliana was hugging herself lightly and holding her breath to also keep from crying.

The three of them made for quite a picture, standing shoulder to shoulder daintily shivering and sniffing, like a line of distraught widows watching their husbands carried home on their shields.

Stanley didn’t bother repressing his reaction this time. His aunt was also sighing in annoyance.

“Now, now. I think there’s been enough of that.” She faced her daughters decisively. “They say the harvest is going to be early this year. Which means there’ll be harvest celebrations before we know it. I think the occasion calls for some new gowns, for each of you.”

The triplets stifled gasps and exchanged glances, their faces conflicted.

New gowns, new anything really, was a treat they usually delighted in. But that would mean admitting they were ready to get over the grieving emotions towards their would-be beau.

Honestly, Stanley felt sometimes his cousins had only become more obsessed with Gaston after he was dead.

Now that he wasn’t around to reject them constantly, it was easier to imagine the feelings they had were mutual. Separation in death only gave it a touch of melodramatic romance.

“Yes, my mind’s made up,” their mother went on. “By this time next month I want to see you back in striking colors. And perhaps,” she paused, touching Eliana under the chin as she considered the faces of her daughters, “just a bit less paint. It may be glamorous, and _tr_ _ès_ Parisian, yes. But our new Princess and her retinue seem to favor a look more _au natural_. Which means we too must follow suit.”

The triplets made sour expressions at mention of Belle, and one by one they scoffed.

“You don’t mean that bluestocking is going to be the one setting fashions now, surely?” went Eloise.

“That’s outrageous!” went Elise.

“Unlikely! Belle’s never known a thing about fashion,” went Eliana. “She probably thinks bookmarks are the height of chic.”

The three giggled, meanly, but their mother fixed them with a knowing look.

“Mock all you like, my dears. But facts are facts. She’s married, and you’re not.” That made them fall silent. Their mother went on, “So, as I’ve said – to work. Your charms aren’t lacking, it’s just a matter of setting them off to be seen at an advantage. You’ve wasted enough time as it is.”

Behind his aunt’s back, Stanley lifted his head to give the girls a sympathetic look.

Crazy as they could drive him, he didn’t think it fair when his aunt started talking this way. Like her daughters were already destined for a life on the shelf at twenty.

“At least we’ve had one gentleman caller already.”

_That_ drew Stanley’s attention. “What, really?” He glanced between the triplets and his aunt. “When did this happen?”

“Oh, yesterday. While you were out making deliveries.” She glanced to a nearby vase of flowers Stanley hadn’t noticed until now. “He dropped these off, then stayed for tea.”

He examined the flowers from across the shop. It was a nice arrangement of white roses and golden lilies, not the sort of thing the village florists would carry. It must’ve come from somewhere else.

“Which one of you was he here to see, though?” His eyes bounced over the girls.

“Well – he didn’t particularly make that clear,” Madame noted, gaze pensive. “He sat with all of us. Lovely man, though. The strong silent type. Very polite.” She looked at the triplets again. “You could do worse, certainly.”

“I didn’t think he was all that special,” Eliana muttered, mutinously stubborn.

“But he was a servant, Mother,” Elise objected, and Eloise nodded again to her words in agreement.

“A _well-paid_ servant. And servants command respect in the community, when they’re highly placed enough. Just look at Madame Clothilde. Why do you think a common fishwife is listened to so much in this village?”

“Because she never stops talking?” Stanley offered. His cousins smothered a collective laugh.

“ _Actually_ it’s because of her husband.” His aunt shot him a look and he got the hint, being quiet as he cast gaze back to the floor. “He stands close to the Prince, thus Clothilde is elevated. Why, she might even be invited to the same salons as us, if she didn’t have to work for a living.”

Conveniently forgetting it seemed as a shopkeeper she _also_ had to work for her living.

The triplets considered this. Eliana folded her arms and set her jaw, thinking.

“Well. He did have nice clothes,” Elise admitted, gradually.

“He was a bit good-looking, maybe. I suppose.” Toying with her braid, Eloise glanced over at the flowers.

Madame Mayette made way towards the door; like ducklings her daughters fell in line behind her. “Enough of this, now. If we don’t hurry they might start luncheon without us. We should be back in about three hours, Stanley,” she called over one shoulder. “Mind the shop until then.”

“ _Oui_ , Auntie,” he replied, craning his neck to watch them as they filed out.

Setting broom aside he carefully snuck over to the window. Once he was sure they were gone he ducked back inside and spun around, grinning.

His eyes fell across the multitude of fabric and fashions in the tiny store. Overcome with glee, he hardly knew where to start.

Sometime later Stanley carefully angled the shutters so, without fully closing the shop down, it would be harder to see in from outside. He’d set aside a pair of silver satin slippers, a stomacher embroidered with seed pearls, and an ivory fan.

He held a peach-colored dress against himself, swaying lightly as he mimed dancing, looking at his reflection. He glanced between the gown and a deep violet one displayed near the wall.

His lip twisted in consternation as he thought. The peach set off his complexion, but the other was so glamorous…

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Stanley jumped at the sudden voice from the street.

“LeFou?” He hurried to the door.

At first his reaction was eager surprise, but he was taken aback at what he found. It’d been several days since they’d last seen each other and since then it looked as if LeFou barely slept a wink. In addition to the shadowed bags under his eyes and his heavy stubble, there was a general slovenliness about his appearance, as if he was simply too tired to care.

“LeFou,” Stanley’s eyes went wide with concern, “what happened to you?”

“Huh? Oh,” he glanced down at himself and grimaced. “Sorry. It’s – it’s been a rough week.”

“I can see that. Would you like to come inside?” Not waiting for response Stanley ushered him in, and LeFou complied as he absently rubbed his eyes. “You should sit down, and relax. I’ll put on a pot of tea. Or I could pour us some _mistelle_?”

“No, no, that’s – tempting, but no.” LeFou paused as he noticed the dress Stanley still carried in one arm. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Ah! No.” Quickly he went to put it back where it belonged. “I was only…enjoying some time to myself. Auntie and my cousins have gone out visiting, and they shouldn’t be back all afternoon. There’s no need to worry. It’s just us.”

“Unless you have any customers.”

“Fah, that won’t happen. This time of year the fancy ladies have already picked out their new designs, and everyone else is waiting to see how much pin money they’ll have to get through the winter. I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t see anybody all day.”

“Yet your aunt wants to keep the shopfront open?” LeFou asked curiously.

Stanley waved a hand. “Appearances. She likes to pretend she’s a modiste the same as she’d be in any big city, with coquettes and matrons in and out every day. Not the reality, which is she owns a small town shop that pays the bills by selling ribbons and replacement trim.”

“Well, if you say so. You’d know better than I.” LeFou sat down in the chair pulled out for him, folding hands over his stomach as Stanley gathered the tea things. “Do you want me to help-?”

“ _Non, non._ Absolutely not. You’re _my_ guest.” Stanley leaned back to look at him, flashing a grin. “It’s so nice of you to come visit me. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Yeah, I hate to drop by so suddenly. I was in the neighborhood and could just,” LeFou sighed, “use some agreeable company. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to pop in, and see-”

“You’re always welcome here, any time.” Stanley paused, his voice soft. “At least when I’m around.”

LeFou met his eyes a moment, but rather than hold Stanley’s gaze he looked away, fidgeting.

That gave Stanley pause and a private frown, but he could see LeFou was worn out and distracted. What he needed was a chance to calm down a little. Then he’d probably be back to his usual cheery self.

This was reason enough to satisfy Stanley, and they made small talk as he finished what he was doing.

“It’s certainly been cold these past evenings, hasn’t it?”

“You can say that again. I’ve needed two blankets just to get by,” LeFou said. “I’m considering going up to three.”

“It’s that time of year. Long nights. The farmers are already guessing the frost will set in soon.”

“Frost, but no rain?”

Stanley grimaced. “ _Mon dieu_ , don’t mention rain to me, please. You don’t know but that’s all anyone talks about anymore. At the tavern. At the market. Before mass. In this shop. I almost miss the endless theorizing about the Prince and his marriage.”

“I’ve heard some of it around but - it’s been awhile since we’ve had a proper spell, Stanley. I’m not surprised it’s getting people worried.” LeFou paused. “Is it really that bad, though?”

“I almost envy you for getting to miss out on it. Everyone has an opinion. When is it going to rain again? How _much_ will it rain? Do you remember the last time, many years ago, when it didn’t rain? How did that turn out? What does it mean, that it hasn’t rained this time?” He made a face as he set the little side table, sitting down across from LeFou. “But then it feels like you still haven’t been around as much.”

LeFou bought time by adding sugar to his tea and taking a small swallow.

“I’ve had my reasons,” he offered finally, voice oddly strained. “I’ve missed seeing people, but if anyone were to ask how I’m doing – there’s too much to explain…”

“You’ve been missed, that’s all,” Stanley told him. “ _I’ve_ missed you. I hope whatever’s keeping you away from us resolves itself soon.”

“Oh,” LeFou muttered, “believe me, it will. I’m counting the days.”

Not sure what to make of that, Stanley doctored his own tea in lieu of replying.

It was on the tip of his tongue: he wanted to ask LeFou’s opinion on that dress he’d had earlier. If he thought it suited him or not. But he couldn’t make up his mind if that’d be too forward.

Maybe it wouldn’t. They’d talked about Stanley’s interests before. And oh, to get LeFou to compliment him perhaps – he couldn’t deny, how wonderful that would be! How good it would make him feel.

LeFou smiled at him, not quite his usual warm brilliance, but it was enough to make Stanley stop and feel riveted.

“So,” he asked, in a very nearly cheeky tone, “how’s your family?”

Stanley blew out a puff of air and shook his head, appreciating he was being given opportunity to vent.

“They’re the same, much the same as always. Auntie fusses about everything. I’m surprised she let me have the shop for today without giving me a lecture on how it has to be just so. All the years I’ve been helping around here, she still thinks I’ll ruin everything soon as she turns her back.”

“I’m sorry. That must be frustrating. And your cousins aren’t any help?”

“With her, or with getting the work done?” He huffed. “It doesn’t matter, the answer’s the same to both. They’ve always been lazy. Lazy and dramatic.”

“Guess that last part runs in the family,” LeFou lightly teased.

Stanley only pretended to look insulted a second before he smiled. “Maybe.”

They grinned at one another in shared humor, and Stanley could feel the fondness that always came up between them starting to build. He tried to play it coy, not wanting to rush the moment.

“You’ll never guess what else has happened. Apparently there was someone to call on the girls yesterday.”

“To…call, on the girls? Your cousins, the triplets? As in…?” LeFou made a gesture, trailing off in astonishment.

Stanley gave a vigorous nod.

“Whoa.” LeFou thought about it. “Was it Tom?”

He scoffed. “They’d never give him the time of day. You know that. Can you imagine any of them settling to be a blacksmith’s wife? Poor Tom,” he added, since the man was his friend. “He’s always been sweet on them.”

“I thought more than a few men around here were,” LeFou remarked.

“Sure, but are they rich?” Stanley retorted. “Are they handsome? Are they-” He stopped himself, holding back Gaston’s name just in time.

He caught a hint of a wince on LeFou’s face all the same.

“Gaston was never rich,” he said in an undertone. He looked into his teacup.

“I realized that. Anybody probably would, if they paid attention. But try telling that to my cousins. They saw the way he dressed, how much money he had to throw around at the tavern and-”

“That was all the money he had, that he threw around. And more than half the time it was _my_ money.”

“When it wasn’t mine.” Stanley touched his hand, sympathetic. “Or Dick’s. Or Tom’s. Or somebody else’s.”

There was a pause and LeFou shook his head, sighing. “Hobbies ate up his income. He never did learn how to live within his means.”

His hands tightened around his cup – like he was angry, Stanley noticed. He made his tone sound purposefully lighter as he went on.

“Suppose the three of them dodged a bad fate. How disappointed they would’ve been, if Gaston actually showed interest in one only for her to learn the truth. I think they might be starting to recover though at last. They seemed at least willing to consider this other man, whoever he was.”

“Uh huh?” LeFou sounded odd. Like he didn’t know what to make of that.

“It’s probably about time. All this weeping and wailing. But another season of fashion and perhaps a little new flirtation, I bet they’ll forget Gaston. After all, he’s been gone for months. Nothing will change that.”

Stanley froze, then, and cringed.

“I’m…so sorry, LeFou. It was wrong of me to say like that. I wasn’t even thinking.”

But instead of looking upset, LeFou’s expression had become hard to read. He stared down, avoiding Stanley’s gaze, something in his eyes haunted and conflicted.

A long strange silence passed as he appeared to be making up his mind.

“Stanley,” he said in a stilted voice, slowly, “can you keep a secret?”

They sat there in the corner of the dress shop, hunched over the small table as their tea grew cold. Stanley wasn’t paying attention to that or how much time passed.

He could only stare in horrified fascination as LeFou spoke on and on, telling everything he’d been dealing with.

“You mean to tell me,” he finally managed at the conclusion, “that Gaston isn’t dead, and that he’s become both a werewolf and a…a _libertine?_ ”

LeFou, who’d been attempting to drink his tea anyway, snorted into his cup. “Really, Stanley? _That’s_ what surprises you most?”

“Well I think between the two of us we both know there’s good reason to never suppose it of him,” Stanley had to point out. “He was always so…”

He trailed off, leaving the vague enormity in the air between them unsaid.

How Gaston was boorish and elitist and obsessed with women and, well, _everything else_ about him.

“Fine. Yeah. You’re right.” Setting down his cup, LeFou rubbed his face in both hands. “But I guess the stress of being dead shook something loose in him. Lucky me!”

The exclamation was sarcastic. Still, it gave Stanley pause.

“Why are you still hiding him?”

“Because I promised, that’s why. If I go back on the Prince’s deal now it’ll only complicate things. And-”

“And what? The village might find out? Gaston might get a fraction of what he deserves?” Stanley pressed. A deep frown had come over his face. “Why are you still bending over backward for him?”

LeFou dropped his hands, caught off-guard. “I’m not!”

“Yes, you are.” He grew heated. “He’s a criminal and a…a _monster_ , and you took him into your home! You’re keeping his secrets, you’re alienating yourself from everyone else, and you’re letting him walk all over you. LeFou, after everything that happened…I thought you had _learned._ ”

LeFou regarded him narrowly. “Learned…what?”

“That Gaston will never be there for you. That he’s never going to give you what you want.”

Bitterness crept into Stanley’s tone. It was the same old song. Gaston treated LeFou like his servant and LeFou stayed hung on his every word and whim anyway.

LeFou was smart enough to know better yet couldn’t seem to help himself. His infatuation got the best of him, and he let himself be used.

Stanley hated to see it, because he wanted LeFou to be happy. To be with someone who’d treat him the way he deserved. He’d felt sorry for LeFou before, but watching him repeat the pattern now…

He couldn’t help it. He felt disappointed in LeFou. Disappointed, and hurt.

“I’m over Gaston,” LeFou insisted. “Sure he’s still attractive, but he can’t make up for what he’s done! He had every chance to show he’s sorry and it’s only made it more obvious how selfish he really is!”

“Maybe you know that, in your head. But if you believed it completely then you’d have kicked him out by now. Face it, LeFou: you still feel something for him.”

Stanley folded his arms, back ramrod straight.

He thought about warming the teapot but he didn’t think that’d be enough. Right about now, everything felt cold.

“Weeks of suffering and unhappiness but after what he did to you, you still can’t say no to him. You’ve let yourself fall back under his spell.”

“Stanley, I haven’t, I swear.” Now LeFou was frowning. “I have to say though it’s pretty rich of you to talk this way. You used to follow after Gaston closely as I did! I don’t think you’re in any position to act so wise.”

It was a snappish, angry thing to say. Placed on the defensive, he was lashing out.

It still stung Stanley to have hurled in his face, anyway.

“Fine, maybe I did,” he retorted. “Because I believed he was brave, and noble! That he was what the paintings made him look like! But I know better now because I saw the real Gaston firsthand. What he was capable of. And so did you! But it doesn’t make a difference, because no matter what you’re _still_ in love with him!”

Belatedly he realized he was shouting. That he and LeFou were both leaning forward, faces flushed, glaring at each other. Both insulted by the other, unable to agree.

He’d been willing to disagree with LeFou about things, before. They didn’t have to be perfect.

But this was something he didn’t think they’d be able to find their way around.

Stanley caught his breath and lowered to a mutter. He slouched in his chair, defeated.

“It doesn’t matter what I do or say. So long as Gaston is around, I simply don’t have a chance.”

The anger left LeFou’s face as he stared at Stanley, eyes going wide with shock.

“Clearly this conversation was a mistake for us,” he tried to backtrack feebly. “There’s too many…personal feelings involved. I’m sorry I even brought it up. I-”

“I’m not going to betray your trust in me,” Stanley interrupted him, dour. “I won’t run out and tell.”

“Oh, no! That’s not why I…of course I don’t think you would!” LeFou’s eyes went even wider, and now he looked hurt. And worried. “But I really am sorry to put this all on you. I didn’t want to make things between us so uncomfortable.”

He paused, clearly struggling with what next to say.

“Stanley, look at me,” he pressed gingerly. “Please don’t be angry with me.”

“I’m not,” Stanley lied.

LeFou gazed at him, and Stanley could see in his eyes he knew it too – there was no getting past this. Whatever had begun between them recently, suddenly it was on the verge of being swept away.

Until Gaston was out of LeFou’s house, out of his life, for good this time, there was no moving forward.

“I should go,” LeFou said with a mournful note in his voice.

“Yes. I think that you probably should.” Stanley got up and offered a hand as he addressed him, stiff. “Shall I walk you out to the street?”

“No. I…I feel like I’ve taken up enough of your time. Have a good day, Stanley. _Au revoir?_ ”

“ _Au revoir,_ LeFou.”

His voice was anything but warm as he said it. He stayed where he was and didn’t watch as LeFou went.

*

After leaving the dress shop LeFou tried not to dwell on what Stanley had said.

It was obvious the other man was upset – and maybe, LeFou couldn’t really fault him. Things had been going so well, but the situation LeFou was entangled within made a real mess of it.

Still he smarted how Stanley had talked to him. As if he thought LeFou wanted this, or was enjoying himself. He felt like he was being blamed for something that wasn’t his fault, and that irritated him.

He was bothered the most however, by the accusation that he hadn’t gotten over Gaston. That Stanley, who’d watched LeFou carefully and overall seemed to know him so well, was so sure of it.

But Stanley was wrong about this. He had to be.

As he walked through the village, he tried to shake that out of his mind.

He scoffed. Yes, all right: in his heart there’d be that little piece that always belonged to Gaston. The way there’d be for any first love. For any he’d held onto for so long. But that twinge of affection was nothing in the grand scheme. It couldn’t be. The good memories were tangled in bad; happy feelings choked out by so much wicked awfulness.

It didn’t matter if he cared for Gaston. Gaston didn’t deserve him. He never had, but at least LeFou knew that now.

LeFou wasn’t going to forget that.

No matter what Stanley seemed to think.

He reached his home and worked a little in the yard, feeding the chickens and checking on his horse. He fixed a loose part in the fence best he could with some twine. After that, he weeded the garden.

Unsurprisingly Gaston hadn’t been doing much chores, or any, since he finally accepted LeFou had no interest in his suit. Why be useful when there was nothing in it for him?

When he finally went inside LeFou leaned against the door a moment, catching his breath. Though he knew he wasn’t about to be ambushed, at least, he still expected to find trouble.

That’s all there’d been, hadn’t there, since Gaston came back. If it wasn’t one thing it was another.

He found the other man in the sitting room, hunched down in an armchair.

Though he had to know LeFou was standing behind him he didn’t react. He only kept staring at the wall opposite with a dark, sullen look on his face.

His hair was unbound, shirt untucked. He wasn’t wearing a vest or waistcoat under his jacket. There was a dark glass bottle in one hand he nursed a slow swig out of. The smell of cheap ale permeated the room.

LeFou refused to be concerned about any of it, though he’d some questions about the presence of the bottle.

“Where did you get that?”

Gaston swallowed and scrubbed his mouth with the cuff of his sleeve. “I bought it, fair and square.”

“You _bought_ it? From who?”

“The village drunk. I traded him my old pocket-watch for it. The one I never used anyway, since it rarely worked.”

“That’s because you never wound it, and wasn’t that a gift from the Mayor? To celebrate the first anniversary of the war ending? And…oh good grief, you let Old Henri know you’re _still alive?”_ LeFou exclaimed, words belatedly catching up to him. “Are you serious? What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t know, LeFou,” Gaston spat. His fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle which rested on his knee. “But I suspect you’ll tell me. You’re certainly very good at that.”

LeFou’s hands fisted at his sides. He glowered at the back of Gaston’s head.

“I am not going to apologize for telling you the truth,” he said, very quietly. “I think it’s high time that somebody did. Who knows, maybe if it’d happened years ago, you wouldn’t be where you are now.”

“Maybe,” Gaston said gruffly back. “Not that it matters, anymore.”

There were a few things he could say that. LeFou bit back the retorts. He wasn’t going to be drawn into a fight. It wasn’t worth it.

He half-expected Gaston to keep going, to try goading him further. But instead he fell back to heated silence.

They hadn’t spoken all day, since LeFou finally got him to give up this delusion he was going to win him over.

He couldn’t deny, seeing Gaston so closed-off and brooding made him uncomfortable. But if he didn’t need to he wasn’t going to do anything about it. He wouldn’t work to try and cheer Gaston up. Not again. He was done.

He took in the pair of them – there in LeFou’s sitting room, not looking at each other’s faces, both angry and unhappy and with nothing left to say to one another. Emotionally, they couldn’t be further apart.

Who could’ve thought after their years together, it would ever come to this?

There was a soft thud. The ale bottle, now empty, landed on the floor. Gaston stood up.

“I’m going for a walk,” he announced.

“It’s the middle of the day, you can’t. There’s too many people.”

“It makes no difference. I’m not heading towards town.”

LeFou stiffened. “Wait. You mean you’re going…into the wilderness? Into the woods?” Gaston’s talk came back to him: how afraid of the rest of the wolves he was, his worries about losing control and forgetting he was a man entirely. “Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”

“Why?” He turned enough to peer at LeFou intently with one piercing eye. “Do you _care?_ ” he demanded, biting out the words.

LeFou fell silent. After a moment Gaston turned away from him, making some sound under his breath.

“That’s what I thought.”

Without another word he clomped out and left.

LeFou wrapped arms around his middle, shut his eyes, held his breath and counted to ten.

_I don’t care,_ he reminded himself. _I don’t care. I don’t care._

He didn’t see Gaston the rest of the day. The sun set and there was still no sign of him.

That was fine, by LeFou. That was just fine. It meant he could go to sleep for once in his own bed. After he changed the sheets.

He slept restlessly that night. No dreams, but every time he closed his eyes he kept seeing flashes of the hurt anger on Gaston’s face.

It reminded him too much of what’d happened with Maurice. Like this was what a guilty conscience felt like.

LeFou punched his pillow a few times, trying not to cry out in frustration. It wasn’t fair. He’d _nothing_ to feel guilty for.

The next day the house seemed far too quiet. Too empty. There was no work for him waiting in the village so he’d nowhere to go.

He busied himself cleaning intensely, in a way he hadn’t bothered to while his “company” was around. He scrubbed the floors and beat the rugs and shook out the curtains. He gathered every item Gaston invaded his home with and dumped it in a pile in the back room.

Moving a discarded towel, he came upon a small pouch. The contents clinked together when he touched it. Frowning, LeFou picked it up and turned it over in his hand.

It was a small drawstring type that could be tucked inside a man’s coat. It was made of brown leather, embossed with an image of a stag.

His throat clenching LeFou dumped the pouch into his hand and discovered a fistful of coins. It didn’t take long to realize it was enough to replace his broken shoes.

The earlier conversations about money reared up in his mind. For the first time in his life, Gaston had been going to pay him back.

LeFou’s fingers closed tight around the coins. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered.

_Too little, too late, Gaston._

When the whole day passed however and still the other hadn’t returned, LeFou couldn’t deny he felt pretty bad.

He found himself going to the village for a basket of rolls. He gave in and slaughtered two of his hens, plucking and deboning the carcasses. He spent an age toiling over the vegetables and herbs, preparing to make a hearty stew.

Food often made Gaston feel better, he reasoned. Maybe he couldn’t fix everything, or give the other what he wanted. But he could at least give a little something. Just to take the edge off the pain.

The heat of another dry afternoon started to build, and still Gaston hadn’t returned to his house yet.

And now LeFou could no longer deny the dread in his stomach. Had what he said gotten to Gaston to the point where he’d actually given up and run away?

Or maybe, something happened to him – and he was unable to come back at all.

He forced himself to feel numbness. To pull back from the worry, the concern. But his throat hurt and his eyes were stinging as he went to brush down his horse.

“Easy boy,” LeFou murmured, as he carefully picked out the knots from his mane and tail. He paused when he was finished, running a hand along the animal’s forehead. “There’s no reason to fret, right? Not for you and not for me either. It’s not any of my business, anymore.”

Camarade whickered as LeFou took a step back, patting the horse on his nose.

“Right,” he repeated – sounding hollow and more uncertain by the moment. “That’s just the way it is.”

He turned to leave, to head back inside. To the home that now felt inherently wrong, denied of the companion he’d gotten used to having again. Even when he was driving LeFou to insanity.

Stopping in his tracks he squeezed his eyes shut. Willing the queasy feeling and tightness in his chest and ache in his head to go away.

“I don’t care,” he said again, aloud. “I _shouldn’_ t care. He used me. He can’t be trusted. He’s done nothing since he came back but exhaust me. I don’t want to be his friend anymore. I – it’s not _my_ problem.”

His voice started to break.

“He should have to deal with this, all on his own. I can’t keep going the extra mile for him. He’s just not worth it.”

None of what he was saying was wrong, he was sure of it. And yet at the same time…and yet…

There was no telling what’d happened, out there. Had the other wolves found him? Had he been captured? Was he lost, or hurt, or afraid?

What he’d said to the Prince still rang true: regardless of who he was or what he’d become, LeFou still didn’t want anything bad to happen to Gaston. The concept tore at him.

And right now he couldn’t escape the feeling whatever was going on, LeFou was responsible. He’d excellent reason, not to say “yes” – but at the same time, his “no” had driven the other to ruin.

The part of him that loved Gaston – and it was there, much as he loathed it – was dying at the thought of doing nothing. It was making him feel like LeFou was in the wrong, _abandoning_ him; turning his back on a lifelong friend when he needed him most.

His heart wanted to help. His head wanted to stay put. Both were insistent notions, urging him, at odds with one another. And he didn’t know which one to trust.

“Why is this so hard?” He spun around. At the desperation in his voice Camarade stomped his hooves, agitated. Not understanding LeFou’s words but still reacting to his emotion. “It’s not fair! Doing the right thing is supposed to be _easy_. You’re supposed to just know it. You’re supposed to know what choice to make…it shouldn’t be this hard…”

He tried to gulp the pain and despondency away, out of his throat.

He had to make a decision, he realized. And either way part of him was going to be convinced he’d made a mistake.

What it came down to in the end was what choice he’d be able to live with.

LeFou rushed to the house to fetch his hat, coat and a satchel.

He followed the path he’d been on when he’d come across Gaston that first day, leading out of Villeneuve and further into the fields. He didn’t have a better idea how to find him. He knew a few tricks from those hunting trips, but Gaston had always been the far superior tracker.

He went on foot, too worried of his horse getting spooked. There was water and bandages and a small flask of brandy in his satchel, which he kept pressed close to his side, squeezing the strap intermittently. He hadn’t known what else to bring. He thought about grabbing a knife or a gun, but if Gaston wasn’t alone…it would probably already be too late.

The dirt road was a ditch cutting across the land. LeFou passed the edges of several farms. He didn’t see another soul. Probably for the best as he’d no idea what he’d ask if he saw someone. Was it more important to ask after his friend, or keep his mouth shut?

Eventually he started to come under tree cover. Far from the woods proper, yet. But these were thickening copses, places where wild animals could live and hide. The foliage was heavy and there was a lot of dead leaf-cover; away from the village, he could see autumn was beginning.

He went still as he heard something. Movement off the path to his right.

Holding position he listened attentively, tilting his head, careful with his breathing.

Yes: there it was. A rustle. Some twigs snapping. And then, a soft growl.

“Don’t lose your nerve, LeFou,” he said under his breath, somewhat ironically. Then gathering himself he dashed off in the direction of the sounds.

He had to push his way through a few trees, ducking under branches, bending them aside and pressing a hand to his hat not to lose it. He sidled around a bush and froze as he thought he saw a shadow move.

No, not a shadow. Black fur. Something big.

There was that growl again. Deeper this time. Closer.

LeFou swallowed. “Gaston?” he called tentatively. He fought the rest of the way forward out of the bush.

The big black wolf, the same that he recognized, was hunched over a bone and crunching between its teeth. At LeFou’s presence it stopped, lifting head to fix him with those yellow eyes.

“Gah!” He came up short, hands flailing. Not certain at first whether he was glad to have found it. “Th-there you are!”

The wolf didn’t move, but bared teeth in a silent snarl. LeFou was sure it was the same wolf; he’d never forget that harrowing encounter when Gaston transformed in front of him, appearing unexpectedly. And this _thing_ was far too large to be normal.

But there seemed no recognition in those animal eyes.

The wolf’s ears were raised but its tail was down, four feet planted apart firmly. The way it watched LeFou was wary, predator weighing a potential threat.

“Hey. It’s all right. It’s only me.” LeFou raised his hands slowly, palms spread. He spoke in a quiet, soothing voice. All the while he didn’t dare look away – and kept his knees bent, ready to run. “You know me, don’t you? I’m not here to hurt you.”

The wolf didn’t move, didn’t seem to react. It held its ground and kept staring.

LeFou took a half step forward and it didn’t do anything. Maybe that was encouraging. A real wolf likely wouldn’t let him get away with that.

What’d happened, he wondered, to make Gaston change forms again? Had he lost control, or done this to himself on purpose?

He stared back, knowing it was dangerous to meet an animal’s gaze this way, unable to help himself. Those eyes were bright, a pure almost shocking yellow.

He peered into them looking for any sign of the man he knew. Anything he could recognize about this four-legged shape, a hint of something human.

It was so disorienting. He hadn’t seen Gaston like this since that first time, almost a month ago by now. It felt so strange to look at this wolf again and know that _this_ was his old friend. That he was somewhere in there, trapped inside that body.

“Gaston. Listen. I don’t know what’s going on, but you’ve been away for too long. We need to get back now. Remember? You have to change back.”

The wolf relaxed, a fraction. A shiver ran along its fur as muscles twitched. The tail flicked, once.

LeFou lowered his hands slightly, a new worry blooming. “Can you even understand what I’m saying?”

He couldn’t tell. The wolf certainly showed no reaction to his words. But it also seemed to know LeFou, enough not to be bothered by him.

LeFou took one step, then another. The wolf remained attentive but that wariness, edge of being on the verge of flight or fight, was no longer prevalent.

It visibly sniffed the air. Then it made an odd chuffing sound, trailing off in a soft whine.

“Gaston?” Dropping his arms LeFou frowned.

The wolf walked away from him and returned to its bone, flopping down on its belly, head tilting as it gnawed with gusto.

LeFou watched, blankly. He was close enough now he could close the distance in three long strides. If he wanted.

Whether Gaston remembered who _he_ was, that was unknown. But it seemed in some fashion he recognized LeFou. Enough the wolf didn’t care about him being near.

“Can you not change back?” he asked nervously.

Pausing its meal, the wolf looked up at him and licked its chops with a smack. LeFou couldn’t help but gulp.

“My,” he quipped weakly, “what big teeth you have. Where’d you find that, anyway?” Head turning he looked for the source of the bone. “Uh oh.”

A short distance away was what was unmistakably a large cow. What was left of it, anyway. Either it’d wandered out of its pasture, or – well. Man or wolf, Gaston was a hunter.

And some farmer out there wasn’t going to be very happy about that.

LeFou looked at the mostly-eaten carcass queasily, glancing between it and the enormous wolf chewing its rib apart for the marrow.

“I hope that cow was old,” he mumbled.

He waited a few moments longer. Hoping for something. Some action from the wolf, or another form of sign.

When nothing about the situation changed he realized he’d have to take matters into his own hands.

“Come on, Gaston.” He raised his voice and took a few steps backward. Making a gesture like he was calling a dog; not entirely sure what he thought he was doing. He didn’t know what else to try, though. “We have to leave now. Yeah? Let’s go back home.”

The wolf perked up, watching him. It hesitated then got to its feet, leaving the bone behind. Trotting towards LeFou.

He froze as the animal drew near, craning neck to sniff the hem of his coat. Then it reached out to bump his knuckles, nudging them with its nose.

Uncertainly, LeFou gave the wolf a soft pat, fingers running through thick fur between its ears.

The wolf allowed that, lifting head slightly into the touch. It watched LeFou with wide eyes and alert ears. Waiting to follow his lead.

LeFou exhaled, sighing.

“All right. Good boy, Gaston. Let’s go.”

*

“You know what this reminds me of?”

There was still plenty of daylight to see by. The air cooled somewhat, though there was no wind. It’d reached about the perfect temperature for a day spent outdoors.

It was an excellent day to go riding, LeFou realized. If things had been different no doubt he and Gaston would’ve been leading their horses through a field, on the way for a hunt.

Instead LeFou was out walking the road back to the village. And though he wasn’t exactly alone…

He glanced to his right, at the black wolf along with him.

His stomach still gave the faintest twist. The sight of such a huge animal up close, with its wide paws and gleaming yellow eyes.

But the wolf gave no indication it’d attack. And it didn’t seem interested in running off either. It’d remained at LeFou’s side, content to follow him.

He was glad he didn’t have to make any attempt to herd the thing because honestly he’d no idea how he could have. He tried to stay optimistic, that it so calmly coming with him meant there was something still in there – recognition from Gaston, a desire to leave the woods and come home.

That was all LeFou had to cling to. They’d gone some distance and the wolf didn’t seem about to change shape any time soon. Or done anything else to betray human awareness.

The knowledge no matter what Gaston was safe now, he wouldn’t run off further or get shot by some terrified farmer, only soothed about half of LeFou’s worries. And the silence started to get to him.

So he’d started talking, in a casual tone of voice.

“It was that time we walked to Beaumont. Do you remember?”

He kept an easy pace, the wolf trotting along to match it. The only responding sound was its steady breathing.

“It was the summer before the war. Or maybe it was closer to spring. Now that I think about it, the flowers had just started blooming. There was that scent in the air, you know…floral, but before it gets too heady.”

He paused, giving a defensive huff.

“I know, I know: ‘get to the _point_ , LeFou.’ But it’s like I always tell you. It’s the details that really make a story.” Looking ahead as he spoke, he pretended the regular version of Gaston was at his side. “Anyway. Beaumont. There’d been word those travelling players we’d loved so much when they visited Villeneuve the year before were back, and they were putting on a show there. And you were determined to go see them.

“And _I_ said, quite reasonably I think, we should wait and see if someone could give us a ride in a wagon, at least part of the way. Or maybe we could even borrow some horses. You were already a skilled rider, even then, and I was…coming along, in my lessons.” He coughed, grimacing. “I mean, I was…good enough.”

He was glad he hadn’t brought Camarade with him today though: already anxious, the animal would’ve no doubt panicked at the mere sight of the wolf.

“But no,” LeFou continued, “you didn’t want to waste any time. You were convinced if we didn’t get there immediately we’d miss them. So, we went. On foot. We left first thing in the morning, walked all day, and even through the night, because there was no good place to bed down on the side of the road.”

He stopped, flicking a small pebble out of his sole.

“Finally we get there, exhausted, dirty, starving; or I know I was. You were pretending to be fine, of course. And much to our surprise the whole town is crowded. Massively packed; I’d never seen so many people in one place before. Turns out, some Duke had come down from Burgundy for a hunt.” He chortled as he recalled. “He’d brought his entire retinue, and all these nobles and people from miles away had come just for a chance to get a glimpse at him.

“And I remember it so clear…one would think that _you_ would’ve been pleased. I mean, what a spectacular coup of events! Something so exciting as maybe seeing a Duke, or even having a chance to join in on the hunt. But no. You were angry! All you could think about was how with so many people there, it meant we might not be able to get in to see the play! But then, you never did care much about nobility.”

LeFou smiled as he thought about that day. He’d been tired, he was sure that he’d complained. But still it’d been fun.

Looking back on it now it was but another fond story. Memories from a life of shared misadventure.

He glanced back at the wolf. It’d been listening to him, he was sure of it, but not reacting or making any show of comprehension to his words.

LeFou cleared his throat. “Anyway. Here’s the reason I mention it-”

He stopped abruptly, realizing there was someone ahead of them on the path. He froze and held out his arm, barring the wolf from moving further, and it obediently stilled.

The figure that came into sight was a slight one, dressed in pale rags, hunched over. A hood was over their head, a large wicker basket strapped to their back. LeFou started in recognition.

“Agathe?” he exclaimed.

The beggarwoman paused, pulling her hood back to stare at him evenly.

Despite her worn, haggard appearance she always had this strange bearing of attentive composure. Never flinching, never reacting, but taking in everything around her with unblinking eyes.

This time seemed no exception. She gazed at LeFou; he gazed back at her, uncertain what to say. He’d no idea how to explain his being there and though she didn’t seem on the verge of asking any questions, he was sure she had to be wondering. For her part, the presence of the basket seemed to indicate she was out gathering herbs.

They kept looking at each other in silence until LeFou cleared his throat, realizing it apparently fell to him to start the conversation.

“What a surprise, meeting you out here! It feels like an age since I’ve seen you around.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spotted her in the village – though, somewhat guiltily, he had to concede she’d always been an easy person to miss. She’d blended in long ago, becoming an unobtrusive part of the scenery. “How have you been?”

Wordlessly her gaze flicked to LeFou’s companion.

The wolf growled, low and deep, ears back and hackles rising.

“Hey! Don’t do that,” LeFou scolded, trying to suppress his alarm. He reached out to rest a hand on the wolf’s back, attempting to calm it. “Shh, it’s fine, it’s fine…”

“New dog?”

Agathe didn’t appear threatened. There was a note in her tone almost sardonic.

“Uh…” He glanced at the wolf. Long-limbed, covered in thick matted fur; a clearly wild-looking animal twice the size of most hounds or herding dogs he’d ever encountered. “Yes?”

Agathe kept that same closed-off, unremarkable expression. She kept looking at the wolf, taking it in.

For an eerie moment, LeFou thought there was something about her gaze that seemed vaguely _knowing_.

“Be careful,” she commented, finally. “He doesn’t appear to be fully housebroken.”

And with that offhand remark she walked past them, climbing off the road and heading further into the wilderness on her own.

LeFou watched her go, blankly. When she was well gone he looked back at the wolf.

“Well. That was odd.”

Considering what else was on his mind he shrugged off the encounter best he could, and kept going.

As before, the wolf followed.

When they reached LeFou’s house the sun had started to set. Though there didn’t seem to be anyone nearby he took no chances, sneaking them in the back door.

After he lit some candles and caught his breath, he looked his companion over properly and clicked his tongue.

“You can’t be inside like that,” he determined. With how dry it had to be he wouldn’t think there’d be mud anywhere; yet clearly it’d found some to roll in, and there were burrs tangled in its fur. “Wait here.”

He dragged the big tub from the shed and brought it in inside. A few trips back and forth, hauling buckets up from the well, he had it filled.

“All right. Go on, get in.”

He waved at the tub, having to shoo the wolf towards it, but eventually it jumped inside. LeFou rolled up his sleeves and knelt on the floor, lathering that thick fur up and scrubbing it clean, combing out the tangles and debris. No sooner was he finished than the wolf started shaking itself dry, splashing water over his face. He spluttered, turning head away as he tried shielding himself with his hands.

“Oh, come on! No! Stop!”

After he’d finished cleaning up there wasn’t much else to do but settle for the evening. He got himself dinner, occasionally glancing over at the large animal currently taking up residence inside his house.

Because for all purposes, that’s what it was: an animal. Despite its unusual size and presence, nothing about the creature’s behavior would’ve hinted it was anything else.

He filled up a large plate with bread and stew, setting it on the floor. The wolf dug in eagerly.

LeFou watched it devour its meal, worrying the inside of his cheek with his tongue.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what Gaston told him. That it’d been difficult to fight off the wolf’s mindset, the curse trapping him in a place where he started to forget he was human.

He couldn’t shake the faint guilt nagging him. That he’d pushed too hard. What if Gaston was…broken, somehow, and it was all his fault?

“Gaston,” he said, weakly, “I’m really starting to get worried now. I hope you aren’t stuck like that.”

It looked up, reacting to the sound of his voice, the only response that mute stare as it licked its muzzle clean.

Going by appearances, anything left of Gaston was buried deep. Otherwise he’d never let LeFou bathe and feed him like he was a pet. He’d have thought it far too humiliating.

The wolf moved and breathed and blinked and took in its surroundings, and that was all it was. Just a wolf. Stronger, smarter, and with an attachment to LeFou; maybe more than a simple wild animal for that. But nothing more.

A thought occurred to him: perhaps this was for the best. If there was nothing left of Gaston to punish, then maybe the Prince would see no point in imprisoning or executing him.

He might actually be _less_ dangerous to others this way. Certainly he wasn’t going to be doing any manipulating or scheming. The wolf had no use for such things. Its desires were simple.

But he couldn’t accept the notion so easily. The thought of Gaston erased – worse than dead, somehow, but replaced by another life entirely. Gaston’s grin, his easy laugh, his callused hands and lively dark eyes; his swaggering stride, his eager enthusiasm for life, the way he frowned like a child when he was confused and yes, even his exasperating stubbornness and pride – everything that was Gaston, gone. _Gone._

LeFou sank down, sitting on the floor, and put his face in his hands.

“What do I do,” he whispered. It wasn’t his fault, he told himself. Still he couldn’t stop feeling just _awful_.

He became aware of the wolf’s breathing as it padded over to him. It made a sound, a buried murmur in its throat, and nuzzled its face against his shoulder.

When LeFou dropped his hands, it licked his face.

Despite himself he laughed despairingly. It was just like with Camarade: even if it didn’t understand, the animal could sense his unhappiness.

Reaching out he traced a path along the wolf’s skull, between one yellow eye and one soft ear, twisting his knuckles in the thick black fur.

“I didn’t know what else to say to you, to get you to listen. I wish there’d been another way.” He inhaled a breath and swallowed. “You keep doing this to me. I know I’m not in the wrong to finally stand up to you, but then the way you take it…I always feel sorry. Maybe it _is_ my fault, a little: for letting you go all these years without ever hearing the word ‘no’.”

The wolf retreated, curling on the floor nearby him. Resting muzzle on its hindquarters it kept its gaze on LeFou. Those steady eyes almost the exact same color as the flames burning at the ends of candles now lighting the room.

“I don’t hate you, Gaston. I didn’t say anything, I let you think that I did, because I felt like I had to. But, I don’t.” LeFou put his hands on his knees. “I hate the things that you’ve done. I hate the choices that you make, and keep making, and how you drag me along for it. I hate that we know each other so well and yet it seems like you don’t _consider_ me at all. I gave a lot but when I needed you, you turned out to be an unreliable friend.”

He lowered his head.

“Yet for all that, I don’t hate you. I still care about you. I still wish we could be friends, that it could be like what we’re used to.” He swallowed again. “I still _want_ you, even after all this…it makes me so angry, but I think a part of me always will. I can’t deny how much I desire you, how much you mean to me.”

He shook his head pleadingly.

“But the truth is, that isn’t enough. Feelings along, they won’t change anything. We can never go back and recapture our past. And I can’t just give in and let my heart have what it wants this time. It won’t work. There’s been too much damage there and, and…it just _won’t_.”

He trailed off in frustration, wishing he could find the words. How he couldn’t turn their misaligned friendship into something more when he finally realized it’d been standing on such shaky foundation. How even _that_ had been all but torn away, in the aftermath.

He loved Gaston, and maybe would’ve been happy to go to him. But he shouldn’t, couldn’t, content himself with only that. He couldn’t give himself to someone under such circumstances.

“You sure don’t make it easy, though,” he admitted. “Do you have any idea how hard it is for me, to keep saying no to someone with all of your charms, and all of your…” he ran tongue over his teeth, absently; not wanting to voice some of the more explicit, embarrassing things in his brain “…might?” he finally settled on.

He looked at the wolf again. Now that he wasn’t terrified or overcome with discomfort, he became aware how beautiful an animal it was. The sleek perfect blackness of its pelt, the elegant form of its body and the haunting look of those eyes.

LeFou gave a sigh, mixed with a soft moan of exasperation, as he tilted his chin.

“It isn’t fair. Why does it figure even like this, you’d be gorgeous?”

The wolf lifted its head, turning aside and holding its muzzle up. Ears at an angle and neck straight, there was only one way to describe that pose: it was preening.

LeFou froze, stunned. Then his eyes began to narrow.

“Wait a minute…”

Flinching at the suspicion in his tone, the wolf tried to settle back down and act natural again. But that only gave it further away. LeFou flung himself forward on his hands.

“You _do_ understand what I’m saying!”

The wolf looked away from him. “Oh no you don’t!” He crept closer, angrily. “It’s way too late for that, friend! You can’t fool me anymore. Give it up. I can’t believe you-”

In the face of his ranting the wolf stretched and shuddered. The next thing LeFou knew Gaston was sitting there next to him, legs crossed.

“All right, all right.” Hands in a gesture of surrender, he gave a sheepish grin. “Sorry! I couldn’t help it.”

It took LeFou a moment to catch his breath as he gaped. He came very close to hitting him outright.

“I don’t _believe_ you! How could you mess with my head like that? Couldn’t you see I was worried sick!”

“Well, yes, but…”

“But _nothing_ ,” he exclaimed. “I thought something was wrong with you, that you were hurt or, or I don’t even know. And the whole time you were just pretending. Why would you do that to me?”

Gaston leaned back on his elbows, face wistful. “It’s just…that’s the nicest you’ve been to me in almost a week,” he remarked, soft.

LeFou fell silent at the words. Surprised, and touched, and wishing he wasn’t.

He couldn’t deny the quickening of his heart, though, or the flush of relief he felt at seeing Gaston human once more. There was his friend again, the same voice and body he’d paid attention to for years.

His eyes swept over Gaston, taking in the sight of him. As when LeFou had last seen him he was dressed haphazardly, hair loose across his shoulders. His coat was missing entirely. But rather than looking sweaty or coated in dirt as would be expected after a sojourn in the woods, Gaston looked clean. His skin was fresh and clear, the fabric of his shirt a crisp white as if it’d come directly off the line. As LeFou looked closer, he realized the very ends of Gaston’s locks were damp and wavy.

A disconcerting realization struck him, as never before he fully grasped that the wolf _was_ Gaston: its body was his body, just in another form. His clothes and hair were clean because LeFou had washed the wolf’s fur. These things transferred over.

When he petted the wolf, he was touching Gaston. When he looked in its eyes, he was still staring into his. And when the wolf nosed him, or licked him, or curled up at his side, then…

Forcibly he shoved this trail of thought away. He couldn’t handle it. Magic, and curses; it still alarmed him. When he could he tried not to remember how it’d become a proven part of reality. He didn’t want anything to do with this. He wished this wasn’t part of their lives.

Things were confusing enough, as it was.

“You could’ve turned back at any time, and instead you kept leading me on,” he said to Gaston woodenly.

The other grimaced. “No, I wasn’t. It’s not that simple.”

“Oh no?” LeFou pressed.

Gaston shifted his weight onto one side, leaning back further so he was almost sprawled out entirely.

“You know I don’t like talking about it,” he muttered.

“Too bad.” LeFou was blunt. “You owe me an explanation.”

Gaston ducked his head, chastised. He considered his words until he spoke at last, falteringly.

“What I said about how the wolf never fully goes away, the opposite is true as well. When I left here I was so upset by things, it was threatening to overwhelm me. I thought if I could let it out for awhile it would be better.” He sighed. “But it’d been so long since I let myself change…it’s almost like being asleep. I’m still aware of everything going on, I still remember what happens. But it’s distorted. I feel so far away from myself, as if everything’s in a dream.”

His face distracted he mused anxiously, trying to describe it.

“It takes effort to reach out and take hold of the reins again. And the more emotion I have, the harder it becomes. After a certain point it feels…easier, not to bother.”

He raised his head to meet LeFou in the eye again.

“I can recognize things, when I’m the wolf, but it’s like I forget the names to them. I knew you, that I trusted you, that I’d be safe if I went with you. But it was only as time went on, as I relaxed that I could remember why, and more came back to me. I really _couldn’t_ change back: not at first.”

LeFou tried to imagine it. What it’d be like for one’s body to be so dramatically different, to be within it aware of what was wrong. It was a sobering thought.

“Still,” he said, insistent though less accusing, “there came a point where you could’ve turned back into yourself, and you chose not to.”

“Yes.” Gaston fidgeted. “I’m sorry that I upset you. I wasn’t trying to be deceptive. Only…”

“What?”

He smiled. “It was worth it, to hear you admit that you don’t hate me.”

LeFou shut his eyes and fought a groan. Because yes, he’d said that, and he knew better than to try taking it back now. All those things he’d said not thinking that Gaston would hear it. He set his jaw.

“If you heard that, then you also heard all the reasoning I gave for why it doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, but I still don’t understand why.” Gaston’s brow furrowed. “Shouldn’t it only make sense?”

“What makes sense is for a relationship to have more than one person in it,” LeFou said, annoyed. “You say a lot of things you don’t really mean, Gaston, and it sets whoever you’re with for a letdown. All you’ve ever really wanted is someone to take care of you and make you feel important.”

“Well what’s wrong with that?” Gaston protested. “Isn’t that what everyone wants, to some extent?”

LeFou was quiet a moment. “Not to the point where there’s no consideration for the other person’s needs and feelings.”

Gaston made a scoffing sound, starting to wave his hand.

“But you and I have an understanding, we’re special-”

LeFou stood, cutting him off wordlessly. His face was stony as he stared back down.

Gaston fell silent. Considering the other’s expression, he sat up, and then pushed himself closer in a kneeling position.

“You don’t believe me. Do you,” he realized. “You don’t think I’m really in love with you. Everything that I’ve told you, about how I feel…you don’t believe me.”

“Your credibility leaves something to be desired. As does your consistency.” LeFou grew sardonic. “It wasn’t that long ago you swore you were in love with Belle.”

Gaston’s face darkened at the name. LeFou continued onward, undeterred.

“So much that you were willing to lay siege to a castle and fight a monster, just to have her. But now you say you’re in love with me.” His lips twisted. “I wonder who you’ll be in love with next month. Or the month after that.”

Gaston’s mouth fell open. “You think that I’m _fickle?_ ”

“Do I think?” LeFou’s eyebrows shot up. “More like I know! Tell me something. Out of the multitude of ladies you’ve pursued over the years…how many _names_ can you remember?”

The pause as Gaston grimaced spoke for itself.

“That’s different, though,” he said after a beat, stubborn.

“Uh huh.”

“It is!” He leapt to his feet, towering over LeFou.

LeFou shifted his weight, braced to move away if he tried to grab him. But though he came nearer, Gaston kept his hands to himself.

“What I thought I felt for Belle…I didn’t understand. In every tale that’s ever talked of what love is, it’s always the same. A man captivated by a woman’s beauty, emboldened by her elusiveness, burning with the desire to have her. To win her at any cost! The thrill of victory, the challenges to be met; isn’t that how they tell a love story?”

He gestured helplessly, fixing LeFou with an entreating gaze.

“So when I felt that I _wanted_ Belle…I thought that was it! I had no reason to suspect otherwise.” He breathed out, pained. “But all I wanted was to have her. To be the hero who’d tell the story of how he captured his bride. The notion of Belle excited me, the way a chase or a game excites me, the way that victory excites me. What I felt was so hollow, compared to how I feel about you.”

He stepped in closer, less than arm’s length away now.

“LeFou – you make me happy. Just, _happy_. I’ve never felt like this before. This isn’t the rush of longing; it’s gentle and engrossing and…complex. All it takes is one thought of you and I’m _warm_ on the inside, alive and…innocent, almost, in a way I can’t describe. It pleases me simply to be near you, to spend time together, to talk of nothing! Every single second seems precious, no matter what it involves.”

He was smiling now, effusively, in a manner that seemed involuntary. Like the happiness he spoke of was seeping out onto his face. He reached to set hands on LeFou’s shoulders – and LeFou couldn’t pull away, resolve failing.

“Every emotion, every sensation is enhanced. And whatever you express, I seem to feel it too, as if my pulse somehow beats in time to yours. I can’t control it. When you smile, my world is full of perfect bliss. And when you’re unhappy,” he faltered, “I suffer, as if from some physical wound. There’s an ache inside that I can’t reach, though I’d do anything to stop it. Anything to make you happy once more.”

He shut his eyes, pained. “And it’s even worse when I’m the cause of it. When you said that I’d upset you, that I’d made you not want me…it didn’t enrage me, the way defeat usually does.” He faltered further, voice hoarse and eyes expressive. “I was sorry that I’d done that to you. Not only because of how it made you deny me, but because it…it hurt. It made me seem to…shrink down, inside. To make me feel as if I wasn’t good enough to have you. And to be aware that I’d harmed you somehow, when it feels as if my life’s desire should be to give you anything that you asked! Anything, to keep you happy, as happy as you deserve. And I…”

He trailed off, frowning, self-conscious. He dropped his gaze aside to the floor.

“I sound like a fool,” he grumbled.

“No!” LeFou managed to shake off his leaden tongue, eyes wide. “Th-that’s not why I’m not saying anything.” He stared as if seeing him for the first time. “You sound…like a man in love.”

Could it truly be? But there was no artifice in this, no purposeful charm.

There was a flush in Gaston’s skin and his gaze though intense was soft in a way LeFou had never seen it before. Gaston was looking at him as he’d never looked at anyone else.

Like he adored him, valued him; wanted him the way someone could only want something they considered infinitely precious.

Both were gazing at the other with unblinking heat, lips slightly parted. Gaston reached to cup the side of LeFou’s jaw with his thumb and fingertips.

Though it made something scream inside, LeFou planted one palm on Gaston’s chest and gently shoved him back.

“All right,” he managed, voice brittle as if he was surfacing for air. “So I believe what you say, about me. That what you’re feeling is genuine. It doesn’t matter.”

“Why doesn’t it matter?” Gaston pleaded, smiling incredulously. “We both want this. I know we do. You know it as well. Give me one reason why we shouldn’t have what we both want!”

LeFou forced himself to take one shaky step back. Shoulders dropping, he rubbed his forehead. He felt tired.

“One reason? Gaston, I’ve given you so many. Everything that I’ve been saying, ever since you returned. Do you think you can be less kind to a lover than you would your best friend? Is that it?”

“No! No, of course not. I don’t…I am sorry, truly I am, that I made you feel this way. But I can make it better now. Just give me a second chance!”

“You’ve _had_ a second chance. And a third chance, and a fourth, and another after that.” LeFou stared him down, merciless. “Every day when you got up, you had a new chance to try and be different, to notice the people around you, to not treat them the way you had the day before. But you never did. It never occurred to you to take any pause for those around you. Certainly not for me.”

“That’s not true, LeFou,” Gaston whispered, taken aback. “You know I always liked you best.”

“You liked me because I gave you whatever you asked for.” LeFou sighed. “Honestly, I’m not even sure that’s still not a big part of the reason why you love me now.”

Gaston stepped forward again, trying to cup LeFou’s face.

But he stayed out of reach this time, forcing Gaston to merely gesture upward towards him with both hands.

“What must I do to prove my feelings to you, LeFou?” There was that fire so typical in Gaston’s eyes, but he’d never seen it at the same time so sad. So poignant. “What haven’t I done already to show you the sincerity of my heart?”

LeFou blinked. “You haven’t even started,” he retorted. “You’ve been feeding me the same empty lines you have everybody. You only ever talk about how great _you_ are, anyway. How I should be flattered by what you have to offer.”

“Well…aren’t you?” Gaston asked dimly.

“You’re missing the point again!” He resisted the childish urge to stomp his foot. How could Gaston be so obtuse about these things? “If you’re in love with me, why do you never talk about me? About my attributes that make me so allegedly lovable? You’re the one doing the courting, here: you’re supposed to be flattering me!”

Gaston’s eyes lit up. “You want to be complimented.”

“Yes!” LeFou huffed. “That would be nice, for a change.”

“In that case…”

With a flourish and a grin, Gaston went down to one knee before him, taking a hand in both his own.

“LeFou, my oldest friend,” he began confidently, “you are without a doubt the most stalwart of companions. You’re faithful, you’re sturdy and hardworking-”

“ _Stop_.” LeFou pried his hand free, aghast. “This is your idea of trying to be romantic?”

Gaston still held the same position, startled and bemused.

“You’re describing me like I’m a piece of furniture.” LeFou’s voice thinned. “Try again.”

“Oh.” Gaston paused, expression changing as he thought about what to say. He cleared his throat, this time appearing far more somber. “Well, you _are_ reliable and hardworking – I’ve always thought those were good things. You’re an excellent singer, an excellent dancer, and you’ve never a complaint to utter about anything or anybody.”

His words came slowly as it was clear he was sifting through his feelings, trying to voice something he’d never allowed himself to properly consider. Trying to name the things he liked about his friend.

“You’re charming, with a great sense of humor, quick reaction time, and a lovely smile.” Gaston swallowed, hoarse with earnestness. “You are…sensitive. Charitable. Brave.”

“ _Brave?_ ” LeFou echoed in a soft tone, astonished.

Gaston nodded animatedly. “You never back down from a challenge. Never hesitate at doing what you feel needs done. You’re levelheaded, and practical…” He sighed, with a half-shrug. “You’re smarter than I am.”

LeFou could only listen, speechless, growing more effected by the moment.

Gaston was doing what he never did: exposing his weakness, humbling himself. For _him_.

“You always know the right thing to say. You understand me, like nobody else does. That’s why when you turned your back on me it felt such a crushing blow. You’re the one that knows me, that sees me, and so for you to look at me and see…that.” He hung his head, pained. Needing to gather himself and recover.

When he did he went back to gazing piteously up at him. “LeFou, you are _wonderful._ You truly are. If you’ve any doubt of that, leave it me and I’ll gladly prove it to you every day. It’s all I ask.”

It took LeFou a second to notice he was struggling to breathe. He felt like his throat was constricting.

He believed it, he realized: Gaston _was_ in love with him. That thing part of him so longed for, though he never let himself think it’d actually come to pass. Gaston returned his feelings. Gaston wanted…him.

If only this could’ve happened a few months ago. When it wasn’t too late.

“It doesn’t change things,” he forced out, willing his voice not to break. “Gaston – I don’t know how else to say it: you _hurt_ me. And that was when we were friends. Now you want me to open myself up to you, under circumstances where if you do it again it’ll be even worse?”

“I won’t,” Gaston rushed to say. “Now that I understand the truth, I could never. I was a fool to cast you aside. Please, forgive me.” His mouth trembled, struggling to force a smile. “Look at me, LeFou. Do you think I can’t learn from my mistakes? I will never take you for granted ever again. I will never treat you as anything less than what you deserve.”

“You say that now. And I can see you mean it, at least you think you do.” He shook his head. “But truth is, I don’t know if you can help yourself. When push comes to shove…”

That was the trouble. Gaston had thrown over so many people, used to only thinking of himself. He’d react, and even if he intended to be a better man – what if his instincts still were selfish?

How could LeFou ever trust he’d be safe in such hands?

“No. I won’t forget what I feel.”

Gaston reached toward LeFou’s arms, grasping him in a gentle squeeze.

“LeFou, I _love you_. Being with you would be my greatest joy. And I think – I know, that you would be overjoyed to be with me too. We have been side by side for so long. Now that we both have feelings for one another…wouldn’t it be perfect? Doesn’t it just _make sense?”_

He gestured with open palm, voice low with longing, evocative in a hopeful way.

“If the past is so painful then let’s leave it behind, and begin anew. Together. The way we always fit. _”_

LeFou didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He merely stared at Gaston, unspeakably conflicted.

The tense silence dragged on, and slowly Gaston got to his feet. He never took his eyes off LeFou, never pulled his hands away fully. Still lingering there, a ghost of a touch.

For his part LeFou couldn’t look away from Gaston’s face. His eyes were wide and shining. There was desperate earnest hope, and fear of that hope being dashed in equal measure, in every line of his face.

In his wildest fantasies LeFou never would’ve dared to imagine Gaston on his knees, begging him for his love. Or that he would ever look at him this way, as he doubted he’d ever looked at anyone else. This collision of reality was nothing like he expected. It made his head spin.

Gaston was breathing shallowly, lips pressed together, holding himself to silence. He was watching LeFou intensely, waiting with anxiety for his response.

And what should that response be?

LeFou knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he should refuse. He should say no to any chance for Gaston, who didn’t deserve it, perhaps from LeFou least of all. It was only _rational_. And yet…

He still loved him. The optimist in him, not quashed, wanted to believe he could change. Suffering had done something to Gaston, that much was obvious, had brought things to the surface he’d never had in him before. Maybe he really could be different.

_‘But so what’_ , the hardened part of him argued. Even if things could be different, that didn’t mean that they _would._ Giving in would only be repeating the pattern; Gaston would take advantage all over again. He shouldn’t always get what he wanted. Not when he never appreciated what he had.

It wasn’t only what Gaston wanted though – LeFou wanted it too. Bitterly, achingly, the dream never let itself be crushed, even with what he’d endured. A part of him, strong for all he’d tried to bury it deep, had never stopped wanting to take Gaston’s hand. To touch him, to have him. That dream was on the verge of impossibly coming true, and how could he walk away from it?

It was so superficial, though. It was…naïve. To think after what they’d been through, they had any chance at a relationship. That this could be repaired. That he could trust it not to fall apart again.

Trust, it hit him. It all came down to trust.

He cared for his friend and would be so happy being with him. But could he trust him? After the darker nature he’d seen in the other, could he trust it’d never come back to harm him – and that included harming anyone else? There were so many things Gaston could do wrong. So many he already had.

Logically he’d no reason to trust Gaston. But logic and reason had little to do with emotions. With love.

He’d have regrets either way. He was sure of it. One decision meant staying safe, taking the moral high road, but knowing he’d forever wonder what might’ve been. The other meant giving in, showing forgiveness, and could easily turn to disaster and be a terrible mistake.

But if it didn’t – his heart fluttered - so much stood to be gained.

So which would he have a harder time living with? Taking a risk and suffering a predictable letdown, or never daring to try?

It wasn’t safe, or smart. But any relationship, he understood, was a risk to some degree. He couldn’t love without putting himself out to be hurt. And no matter how many calculations he made, any degree of trust put in someone was made blindly. To care would always mean an opening for pain; that was just the cost of having feelings.

And he wanted to feel. He wanted to trust. Maybe he shouldn’t, but he _wanted_ to.

So he would.

“All right.” LeFou spoke in a hushed murmur, throat dry at first. “Yes.”

Without knowing quite what he did he reached out to Gaston, pulling his hand into his own.

“I’m willing to want this. I’m willing to try.”

Taking in what LeFou was saying, Gaston burst into a beaming smile, delight and exhilaration flooding his face.

“LeFou! Thank you, I-” He fought for words, then gave up. “ _Thank_ you.”

He took the shape of LeFou’s face in his hands, leaning forward for a kiss.

And LeFou’s eyes fell closed, one hand going to thread in Gaston’s hair, as he let himself enjoy how right it all felt.

Trusting that, somehow, everything was going to be fine.


	7. starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Now there's no holding back I'm making to attack  
> my blood is singing with your voice I want to pour it out  
> the saints can't help me now the ropes have been unbound  
> I hunt for you with bloody feet across the hallowed ground
> 
> like some child possessed the beast howls in my veins  
> I want to find you tear out all your tenderness and howl"
> 
> \- florence + the machine, "howl"

The morning sun was pale and bright as it filtered into LeFou’s bedroom through the windows. He stirred to wakefulness, curled up on his right side. Eyes still closed, he stretched.

He paused, however, in groggy confusion as he felt something impeding him.

As more sleep left him, he became aware of the muscled arms wrapped around him from behind. That his back was nestled against another body.

His eyes popped open as he realized the truth.

He and Gaston were in his bed, together. Last night, it hadn’t been a dream. He could hear Gaston’s heavy breathing, the warmth of his skin seeping into LeFou’s.

It was _real_. This was really happening.

Curled within Gaston’s embrace LeFou felt overcome with gentle elation, still trying to fit this miracle into his mind. He snuggled down against the bed, for the moment feeling as if he never wanted to leave.

His smile took on a different edge, biting his lower lip, as he recalled last night in more detail.

It was funny: he couldn’t exactly remember the moment when he and Gaston began kissing.

He knew it must’ve happened, obviously. He could remember closing his eyes, the press of hands cupping his lower jaw.

But that instant, that exact second where their lips first met – somehow, it’d faded into obscurity.

Rather than being upset he’d lost those few seconds he found he didn’t really care. One moment they hadn’t been kissing. The next they were, and when they were – they just fit together, well enough to make it seem a little odd they hadn’t been doing it all along.

He remembered the heat of Gaston’s mouth against his, facial hair brushing his cheek, the insistent press of his lips and then tongue as LeFou yielded further. Gaston was forceful, that was no surprise, but rather than being rough or hurried here he was gentle, and savoring. Wanting to drink every drop of enjoyment from this as he could.

LeFou bent slightly as the other leaned down into him where their faces met. He ran his fingers through Gaston’s hair, thick waves twining around his knuckles. His other hand rested on his shoulder, where the muscles of Gaston’s neck met the base of his throat.

He could feel the beating pulse against his palm: steady, and eager. Like it was leaping out of his skin to meet him.

The next thing he became aware of was Gaston tugging at his vest, popping open the buttons, swiftly pulling fabric aside. LeFou felt no surprise. Of course Gaston would move instantly on, wanting – expecting – something more.

If it’d been anyone else LeFou might’ve gone ‘ _stop’:_ ducked away, steered the hands off him.

But he found he didn’t want to.

What for? His encounters in the past had been more about lust than love, anyway – and he’d wanted this for so long. Wanted it without allowing himself to really admit how _much_ he wanted it.

Anyway, this wasn’t like they were strangers. The back and forth he knew was supposed to happen, the patience, the waiting, the courtship…there wasn’t any point.

This was fine, he decided. He realized: he wanted it to go this way, too.

He didn’t resist as Gaston tugged his vest off him, lifting arms as he moved to his shirt. He stepped forward, kicking off his own shoes as he did, herding Gaston towards the bedroom.

He followed LeFou’s lead, walking backwards, having a near miss colliding with the doorframe, but never pausing in his actions. Obligingly he raised arms out of the way as LeFou worked fingers under his shirt, pulling it over his head.

Something acute filled LeFou’s insides as his hands went up the muscles up Gaston’s stomach, his chest and the edge of his biceps.

He could linger, now, if he wanted; he could touch as long as he liked.

How many times had he done this before, helped Gaston get undressed? But _never_ like this.

A warm feeling threatened to overtake him, leaving him almost feverish. Gaston’s kisses left his mouth, trailing down his chin and side of his neck to his collarbone as they continued stripping one another of their clothes. LeFou tilted head back in the embrace, lips parted.

Before long the last impediment between them was gone. LeFou almost couldn’t focus; his eyes wanted to go everywhere, roving across Gaston as if he’d never seen him before.

Gaston had sat on the edge of the bed around the time his boots came off. He pulled back from where he’d still been kissing LeFou to gaze at him.

He looked up, he looked down…and he faltered. Drawing hands back, uncertainty appearing on his face.

The silence, the pause when they suddenly weren’t touching each other seemed so accusing.

LeFou could feel the stinging edge of humiliation starting to build.

Maybe seeing him, all of him, was a different story. Clothes could hide a multitude of sins. Maybe Gaston was feeling a damper in his attraction, now.

He tried swallowing away his fear, fighting the itch to fold arms over himself, try covering his body with his hands.

“Is something wrong?”

Gaston hesitated. He looked at LeFou again, after a moment forcing an anxious smile.

“I…I don’t know what to do,” he admitted.

LeFou blinked. He tried smothering back a snort of laughter, but failed. And once the sound escaped him he couldn’t seem to stop.

Gaston gaped at him, aghast and confused, looking vaguely hurt even.

LeFou couldn’t help it. It was all so ridiculous.

“Gaston,” he managed to gasp, finally, “I can’t believe I’m saying this. But - you’re overthinking it.”

Shaking his head, he stepped forward. With a boldness that would’ve surprised him but a few minutes before he reached between Gaston’s legs.

Gaston’s breath caught, audibly. LeFou could see his adam’s apple bobbing; he moved back on the bed, not seeming to know what he did but clearly not objecting to the hand on him. LeFou leaned forward until he was on top of him.

“You have a cock,” he spoke low by his ear, “and I have a cock. And I _know_ you know how yours works. So just relax, all right?”

“A-all right,” Gaston murmured in reply, shakily.

He laid back, permitting LeFou to steer him down. Responding as he continued touching him. His eyes fell gradually closed as he breathed in and out, openmouthed.

LeFou guessed most of what could happen would be too much; Gaston still reticent at the notion of what it meant, physically being with another man.

But that was fine. _Something_ , certainly, was better than nothing.

Sitting astride the other he bent forward to caress his stomach, to kiss up to the hollow of his throat. Gaston tilted head back obligingly, muscles in his face contorting as he gave over to his pleasure, making soft stilted sounds in between breathy exhalations of LeFou’s name.

This was nothing like LeFou ever imagined it would be, the few times he’d permitted himself to imagine. In his mind Gaston always was rough, forceful. He’d pinned LeFou under his weight and made like he would about tear him to pieces with his vigor.

The reality by comparison was unbelievable. Gaston lay stretched out on his bed, bare and trembling, seeming too overcome to move.

His eyes squeezed shut, expression pained with sensation, silently pleading for release. His hair spread out in a silky black halo. The sound of his rasping breath filling the confines of the darkening bedroom.

The reality had Gaston overwhelmed, surrendering himself to LeFou, to do almost whatever he wanted. Trusting and submissive in his touch. _Helpless._

LeFou never could’ve pictured it. Never thought this would be happening. But he couldn’t deny, it felt incredibly…exciting.

He would never forget this, he knew. Not for the rest of his life.

A shudder went through them both as Gaston reached his finish. He dropped his head to one side as if he might fall asleep, chest rising as he breathed heavy and slow.

LeFou climbed off, on his hands and knees as he watched Gaston with the ache of love and a tingling, darkly sweet kind of satisfaction the likes of which he’d never known.

His own physical need was pressing but he almost didn’t care. Being able to put his hands on Gaston’s body like that, what he’d let LeFou do to him; it meant so much.

Abruptly, Gaston opened his eyes again. Gazing at LeFou intently. He pushed up on his elbows, raising himself like his body was heavy – no doubt everything sluggish and a bit strange in the afterglow.

The silence thick, suddenly it felt awkward. LeFou’s tongue weighted with how he didn’t know what to say. “Gaston…”

Gaston surprised him by shushing him, laying a thumb across LeFou’s mouth. He hesitated – as if he too felt awkward; as if everything was so different now, poignant for him as well – before leaning in to press gentle kiss against his lips.

His hands went to Gaston’s back, holding him closer. As if any moment he might simply vanish.

When they pulled apart he opened his eyes to see Gaston’s tracing a line down his body. Carefully, calculating. He reached out and took LeFou in his grasp, causing the other to draw startled inhale through his nose.

Even as he wrapped strong fingers around him his touch was hesitant at first, almost fumbling. But there was determined heat in his eyes. Focused on his task, on a goal.

“Like that?”

“Yeah. That’s…that’s good.” He caught his breath again. “You can be a little harder…” He put his hand on Gaston’s wrist. “Yes…oh, god…”

They went on like that, Gaston demanding feedback and LeFou responding dutifully. Coaxing Gaston, praising him.

But it didn’t take very long at all. How could it, with the way things had gone?

When the dancing lights faded from the back of his eyelids, his head cleared, he straightened from where he’d slumped against Gaston’s body. Looking down he discovered he hadn’t pulled back in time, his release shined all over Gaston’s stomach.

The other man was staring at it, blankly, with a face LeFou couldn’t read.

Anxiously LeFou grasped a handful of sheet, using it to quickly wipe it away.

He was scared, he realized, of doing anything that might give Gaston second thoughts. That might make him regret this.

When at last he looked at him, however, he smiled. His eyes filled with fondness and pleasure. He cupped the side of LeFou’s face, hand under his chin, caressing his hair.

LeFou almost couldn’t stand it: to have Gaston looking at him with a lover’s affection. Though he was certain his returning gaze burned just as warmly.

Gaston pressed his face against the side of LeFou’s throat as he went to hold him. He rubbed nose against his skin, smelling him. Nuzzling with a content smile.

“ _Mon amour_ ,” he whispered.

LeFou gripped the side of Gaston’s arms so tight. “I love you too, Gaston.”

He never thought he’d get to say it. Never. He hadn’t dared aloud even when he was alone; even after he’d thought Gaston was dead.

Somehow, by some silent consent, they’d laid down after that. There was little bumping of knees and elbows or shifting - either they were that practiced at moving around one another, or just that tired. But very quickly they must’ve gotten comfortable and fallen asleep.

Now it was morning, and here they still were. In LeFou’s bed, tangled up together.

In the sweet drowsiness, comfortable beneath shared blankets, it was hard not to think this was the way it was always meant to be.

From behind him, LeFou heard a yawn.

It took a moment for Gaston to wake also. Then without hesitation his grip around LeFou tightened, snuggling up to him.

He could hear the hazy grin in the other’s voice as he spoke into his ear, breath tickling his hair and moving across his skin. “Good morning.”

LeFou bit back a laugh: feeling the front of Gaston’s body pressing into him, aware at once how significantly stirred to wakefulness he was.

Whatever uncertainty he had before about being with another man, it seemed to have disappeared.

“Good morning to you, too.”

He rolled over so they were face to face, noses practically touching. He was too glad to greet the new day the way Gaston seemed to think it should be done.

It turned out to be a long, drawn-out morning. They made love twice before giving in to the nagging of hunger.

LeFou gathered up bread, grapes and cheese to make a cold breakfast, not caring to set the table. As he ate, Gaston lounged in one of the parlor chairs without bothering to put a stitch of clothes on, a sight LeFou found very distracting.

Soon as they finished Gaston stood, dragging him back to bed – LeFou’s protests halfhearted at best.

It was well into afternoon when he decided it was enough. He stood firm by this resolve, as Gaston pouted becomingly, pressing kisses along his shoulders, clinging to him by the wrist when he tried to walk away.

“I have things to do.” LeFou tugged free, flattered as he was annoyed. “I can’t stay in bed all day!”

“Hm, I’ll bet you can,” Gaston countered meaningfully. Lowering his eyebrows, he gave that smoldering look.

It hadn’t been robbed of its power, where LeFou was concerned. But knowing that Gaston’s ability to inspire longing in him was far from one-sided gave him a greater reserve.

“Gaston!” He objected, laughing, “I have _work_ to do. Chores. Errands. I still need to make sure we have money and food, you know?”

Gaston sulked silently but conceded the point, flopping back on the bed as he let LeFou go about making his preparations to at last leave the house.

LeFou assumed he fell back asleep, and went about his business. He laid out his clothes, checking the pockets of the coat to ensure he’d everything he needed, and threw a thin robe over himself in form of modesty while he hurried outside to fill a basin from the well.

After he’d pulled out the soap and towels, however, and finished heating the water over the fire, Gaston surprised him by making a reappearance.

“What are you-?”

“Shh,” Gaston stopped him, reasonably. “It’s all right. Here, let me help.”

Picking up the sponge, he soaked it in the basin. Then turning a dumbfounded LeFou around he began rubbing it against his upper back and shoulders in circular strokes. “There. Is that good?”

“It’s…fine,” LeFou managed to say.

He felt in a daze as Gaston washed him, thoroughly, with gentleness and steadiness LeFou wouldn’t have expected. After toweling him off, before LeFou could recover his wits enough to realize what was happening, Gaston picked up the clothes from nearby and began helping him dress.

“Gaston, you don’t have to – I can do-”

“I know you can,” he cut off his stammered protests. “But I want to.”

He reached to brush a dampened curl from the base of LeFou’s neck, face lingering close enough for a kiss though not quite giving one as he looked down at him.

“You’ve done for me, for how many years?” he said quietly. “Let me do this for you.”

LeFou’s mouth parted in surprise.

He had helped in many things, all right, down to matters as intimate as occasionally getting him dressed in the morning after a rough night; without ever any notion of a reward. He’d never expected Gaston to so directly acknowledge it, even now.

There was nothing to do but mutely obey as Gaston went about neatly putting one garment after another on him, attentively brushing them down. Once LeFou was fully dressed he turned to his hair, slicking it back and styling it up in the manner LeFou used to wear - back when he was still but Gaston’s devoted follower, trying his best to imitate him. LeFou hadn’t thought or heart to stop him.

Still stark naked himself, his hair falling in rumpled half-waves around his shoulders, Gaston tilted head appraisingly as he considered his handiwork.

“It needs a finishing touch…ah!”

He took up a faded red scarf, twisted it into a line and then looped it under LeFou’s collar, tying it off in a bow.

“There,” he determined, grinning in pleasure. “Perfection.”

Picking up LeFou’s hand he turned it over, holding it in both his own as he brushed an affectionate kiss across his knuckles.

LeFou could only stare at the gesture, speechless. Feeling like this was happening to somebody else.

Then Gaston straightened up, spun LeFou around by the shoulders so he was facing the door, and cheerfully pushed him forward.

“Now, the sooner you finish with whatever affairs you have in the village, the sooner you can return. So by all means, hurry along!”

A hand gave a playful smack to his backside.

Even as he was thrust over the threshold into the light of day LeFou whirled around, not entirely sure he could believe what just happened.

Remaining inside beneath the shade of the doorway, Gaston winked at him. _“A bientôt!”_ he called – before he shut LeFou’s own door in his face.

LeFou was left standing out in the cold, feeling flushed and confused.

There was nothing to do after a moment but turn around, taking the path toward town.

His head was still whirling although one thing was certain. After a morning like that, he _was_ already eager to return home.

*

It had never been this way, before.

Gaston thought he was experienced in the act – experienced to the point where even the word _“experienced”_ seemed understatement. There was no denying in the years since he’d reached manhood he’d cut a wide swath from Bourg-en-Bresse to Bordeaux, comprised of swooning maids and hardened wenches alike. He liked his nights long, his pleasures simple and easily satisfied, and he was used to getting what he wanted.

But still, for all of that, it had never…it had never _felt_ like this.

It was almost as if he was back to being painfully young again. Filled with desires he could taste on his tongue yet didn’t fully understand. Fumbling and ungainly, eager but uncertain and nearly frightened by his own body.

Wanting, and excited by the want, yet shaken by the feeling of wanting something so otherwise unfamiliar.

The first time he had a woman, he’d visited a brothel, paid the coins she was asking and pretended he knew what he was doing. And then the next time, and the next: until he didn’t have to pretend anymore. He had lied to his friends in the regiment at the start; told them a very convincing story about a farmgirl, a sweetheart back home, with details he’d gleaned eavesdropping on older men at his village’s tavern. LeFou had backed him up.

It didn’t matter, anyway. It wasn’t long before truths of his exploits far outweighed the fiction.

He would’ve thought from the start that confidence would have carried over. True, some things he expected to be different, bedding a man, but surely not all of it?

Yet his poise failed him, when the moment arrived. What was more surprising though: he didn’t even feel ashamed. He was too awed by what’d happened instead, for that.

LeFou’s skin felt different, his hands were a bigger shape, and yes there were other _parts_ as well – but that wasn’t it. None of that was the crucial difference. It was how LeFou touched him: different places, and everywhere, and slow.

He was used to taking the initiative. It wasn’t necessarily intentional…but most women, they lay back, held on and let him do as he would. For, clearly, he knew what he wanted - and perhaps, they were just along for the ride. A hand clutched to his back or briefly petting his neck, that was what he knew. A bolder touch he only received if he asked. It rarely occurred to him to do so.

But LeFou’s hands were hungry as his kisses. He grasped and teased; he scratched and he squeezed and he stroked.

And Gaston felt truly loved all over as he didn’t think he ever had before. He’d no idea – it never occurred to him, how good it could feel to simply be _touched_. He was undone by it; he felt oddly powerless and comforted at the same time.

He’d always needed to be in control, it was his way. But even as he drifted away, helpless, he wasn’t left flailing or frightened.

He trusted LeFou. He knew he would take care of him.

It felt very good it turned out to lay back and let go, let someone else take charge, knowing he’d never be mocked or manipulated. Knowing he was safe.

Gaston never wanted it to stop. If he clung any tighter he would’ve wrapped around his love in a ball and started purring. “Home” had become LeFou’s body against his; a world that was nothing but the two of them ardently, gently devouring one another. The bed that they shared.

And in the back of his mind he knew: it was the wolf in him, at least in part. That was what made him crave the constant reassurance of scent and touch.

He should have fought it. Should’ve feared and resented another sign of his curse, his nature altered against his will.

But he was too happy – and he found because of that, he didn’t care at all. Days and nights blurred, he thought of nothing save how he wanted to be exactly where he was…for the most part.

For even if Gaston didn’t mind being _loup-garou_ when he was with his lover, that wasn’t the only thing now that was different.

He’d accepted what he evidently was now; accepted he was in love with another man. Accepted that he desired another man’s body. So he reminded himself. Yet he couldn’t seem to banish a voice at the back of his mind.

A voice that spoke shrill but insistent – of common decency, and the ways of proper society. Of _sin._

Gaston never held much concern about religion. While others fretted over mortal souls and eternal punishment, he’d shrugged it off in the way of superstition. It wasn’t a subject that cut deep, to him. Scripture was tedious, sermons made him fidget and yawn.

Yet he’d absorbed social mores. That innate canniness in him developed a hearty sense of what was perceived as right and wrong. Not for its own sake, but as a matter of principle. How could he be honored if he wasn’t careful to emulate that which was good?

It was easiest to understand the world when it was ordered neatly, tidily. He’d always knew there were some things a respectable man, a true man, simply did not do.

Now he found himself on the wrong side of these notions. Chafed by them.

He’d never questioned the rightness behind wanting something before. If he wanted something – well, he _wanted_ it. He should have it. Simple as that. He’d never paused to wonder if to even _want_ something could be inherently wrong.

The voice wouldn’t stop plaguing him, reminding him it was said, it was known, for him to look at another man’s body and feel desire was _wrong_ ; was foul, was depraved. That he was lesser, worthy of contempt to even think it, let alone act on these…aberrant urges.

His whole life he’d lived by society’s code, nodded in agreement and felt it just. If that was the way things were then, why, that was the way things _were_! There was nothing else about it.

But – he struggled to put it into words – somehow, it just didn’t seem _right_.

He loved LeFou, he enjoyed being with him. How could caring for someone as never before, how could something that felt so sweet…how could that be wrong?

He tried not thinking about it.

For the first time in his life, not thinking was no longer easy.

It crept up in him at inopportune moments. When he paused between actions. When he was in bed, hovering between waking and sleep.

As days passed the little anxiety could only grow. Until one night found him lying on his back staring at the ceiling, unable even to close his eyes.

Palms pressed to the mattress beside him, sheets cool against his bare chest, gaze fixed in a straight line, he scowled and fretted. Resenting these thoughts, the twist of unrest they placed in his stomach, how they made them look down at his own skin as if he no longer recognized it. Resenting most that by sheer will he could not make them go away.

Did he have control of nothing, anymore? Not even his own mind?

He felt the disturbance to his right side as LeFou shifted, drawing breath in a low murmur.

“Is something wrong?”

He stole a guilty glance over – when last he’d checked LeFou was but a familiar shape in the dark, and he’d assumed he’d long fallen asleep.

“No,” Gaston whispered. “Of course not.”

His words must have been too stiff, because LeFou turned so they were facing, cracking open first one eye then the other.

“Then why aren’t you asleep?” The question was knowing, almost dry. Gaston had to smile.

“How did you know that I wasn’t?” he wondered.

“Because you weren’t snoring,” LeFou sighed, matter-of-fact.

“…I don’t think I snore _that_ much.”

“Ha,” was LeFou’s only retort, an absent mutter. He poked Gaston in the ribs, lightly, moving closer so he could pillow his face on his shoulder, hand going to rest on his chest. Gaston let him, arm automatically draping across his back.

There was silence at first, before LeFou resumed speaking. “It’s not like you to be so bothered by something you lose your peace of mind.”

“I know. Believe me. I hate it.”

“What is it, then?”

Gaston twisted his face away. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said gruffly.

Even without looking at him directly he could register LeFou’s surprise, the way it made him sit up.

Not wanting to waste time with _talk_ when he could be _doing_ , and not putting much stock by foolish sentiment, neither of these were irregular for Gaston. But LeFou must’ve sensed this was something bigger, and so it was curious he would keep it to himself. Not when usually they shared everything.

“You might feel better if you did,” he pressed. “You know you can talk to me about anything.”

That sentence, more than any other, was a stab of guilt within his breast. Gaston extracted himself from LeFou’s touch for suddenly it felt like he didn’t deserve it and that made him angry. On his side facing the wall, he folded his arms, lifting shoulders and drawing neck in so his back curled.

He could clearly picture the look on LeFou’s face, disbelieving and wounded, dark eyes wide. “Gaston…”

“It’s not important,” he cut him off, almost snapping. He tried to get comfortable where he was: colder now, moved out of LeFou’s reach and giving him his back. “I wouldn’t want to offend you by accident.”

There was another silence. Long enough he supposed LeFou must have given up and tried to go back to sleep.

“Let me guess.” His voice came unexpectedly, after a moment, soft but sure. “You can’t stop feeling, even a little, like you’re doing something wrong. You don’t understand how something that’s supposed to be wicked can feel so right and good.”

Where he lay Gaston’s eyes widened, as LeFou caught his breath in a sigh.

“You feel happy, and that makes you guilty. Because there must be something wrong with you, right, that you could be happy doing something like this? And even though you tell yourself over and over it doesn’t matter what people say and they’re wrong, they don’t know any better - still you can’t stop thinking about how disgusting this is supposed to be, and that it’s a sin.” His voice grew slightly strained. “And it is so… _annoying_ , so frustrating, how even though you don’t agree, you can’t seem to get those thoughts to stop. At times it feels like the back and forth war is tearing you apart.”

Lifting his head Gaston peered closely over his shoulder at him in complete bemusement.

“How…how could you know?”

LeFou’s smile was tired.

“I’ve been through this before already, remember? Years ago.”

Understanding, in the form of both relief and remorse, washed over him.

But of course. While Gaston had come into his own during their youth, blooming outward with pride, LeFou’s experience had been very different.

Weight lifted now he turned back over and sat up, reaching for him. He took LeFou’s face between both hands, running fingers through his curls.

“What do I do?”

“Just…give it time.” LeFou rested hands on Gaston’s arms. “I wish there was something more I could tell you than that. But, there isn’t.”

“It’s all right. I’m only glad you won’t be angry with me,” Gaston enthused. “I don’t hate this. Being together. Anything but.” Screwing eyes shut he leaned so their foreheads were touching. “Yet at the same time, I…”

“You don’t have to say anything.” He rested his fingertips against Gaston’s lips. “ _Ça va_. Really.”

In the closed dark of the room he listened to their mingled breathing. Subtly as he could he drew inhale through his nose: the wolf in him giving a keen of pleasure, comforted indescribably by their mingled scents. By the kind of _belonging_ that conveyed.

They held to one another and he sighed. They laid back down, this time LeFou in the center of the bed with Gaston in his arms; holding to LeFou, head pillowed on his chest. Soothed by the steadiness of his heartbeat, as LeFou petted his hair.

“I’m unused to this,” Gaston remarked. “Such things…these doubts that would plague me. Having to consider and weigh what is and what isn’t, what’s known and what ought to be.”

His pace in life had been sure, and steady. He was hardly a philosopher: he believed contemplation a sign of weakness. It was as much a waste of time as reading.

Stories were fun, but why choose words that could never be real when there was always the option of action?

But between past, future, and present he’d more to think about than he wanted. About what could’ve been, wondering where it went wrong. Revisiting things he’d always taken for granted. Revaluating the concept of what was even right – the possibility appearing that he might’ve made mistakes.

He didn’t have the tools for dealing with this. It felt like there was a whirlwind trapped in his skull. It exhausted, confused, even pained him.

LeFou’s voice came gently as the caress he continued tracing back and forth on Gaston’s head.

“I was always jealous how confident you were. The way you never doubted yourself.” LeFou admitted, “I admired it. I wished I could be more like that.”

There was a sour taste in Gaston’s mouth as he considered what LeFou said was in past tense.

What had changed, he wanted to ask. Was it LeFou no longer thought being that way was such a good thing? Or was it more that he no longer held admiration for Gaston at all?

Before the question could form however he looked past that and realized what else LeFou was saying. The source of envy had been in his discontent – while Gaston was striding about town, head high, LeFou had trailed in his wake silent and swallowing misery. Weighted down by feelings he couldn’t act on, words he could never say.

He remembered how LeFou said he wished he could’ve just _talked_ to him, back then. How it would’ve helped if he’d only been able to get his friend to listen.

Gaston understood now why it’d hurt, why the silence had been so frustrating. If he hadn’t been able to talk about what was happening to him…

He glanced upward LeFou’s direction, not quite meeting his eyes. Back then he’d shrugged and washed his hands of it, not wanting to embroil himself in the awkwardness of a troublesome situation.

But at every step of the way, now, LeFou had been willing to listen and to explain his own feelings to him. He’d unflinchingly offered what Gaston had never done.

He murmured, “When you had no one to talk to, it must have been lonely.”

Slowly LeFou ducked his head, taking his turn at avoiding the other’s gaze. His voice was too closed-off to tell if it harbored resentment.

“It was,” he simply replied.

Gaston swallowed, softly. Carefully he moved, rising to his knees so he was above the other. Bringing a hand beneath LeFou’s chin he lifted the other’s head, getting him to look up at him.

“You aren’t alone now.” He cupped LeFou’s cheek, knuckles grazing his ear, fingernails brushing against his eyelashes. “You’ll never be alone again,” he promised.

LeFou set his mouth, as gratitude and affection filled his eyes. He wrapped his arms around Gaston and pressed his face against his stomach.

Gaston rested chin atop LeFou’s head as they wordlessly held each other in tight embrace.

Together at last – and this time, he felt sure of it, never meant to be parted.

*

Villeneuve was built upon a hill and surrounded by walls, because despite tidy stonework and cleanly-painted fences the town’s history stretched back a bit further than it looked. Back to a time when attack by roving bands of thieves or assault by a foreign army was not so unlikely.

These were supposed to be more civilized times. And though war had raged off and on again through the reign of the last two kings, in truth it’d been some years since active battle was fought in these parts.

Still the occupants in the sleepy countryside remained prone to fears brought on by wild story-telling; in their attitudes rustic, isolationist, even feudal.

From a distance Villeneuve appeared, against the flatness of the landscape, large enough. But once within her walls, its world grew very small indeed.

It was the connection to it all. Nothing could happen in the village that everyone there and in the surrounding countryside wouldn’t hear about, or indeed could not be affected by.

If the farmers struggled to grow their grain then the millers would have nothing to grind into flour, and soon the bakers would have no bread to sell. What would the tradesmen eat then? And if no one earned coin from their business then who would buy fish, or flowers, or pottery, or beer?

It had not rained in this land since summer. The days and nights grew steadily colder, though never dropping sharp enough to force moisture from the collision with lingering season’s heat.

If it kept on this way, soon, very soon, it would be everyone’s problem.

Well, suppose everyone except the aristocrats, kept far away on their estates and behind gilded walls. They never cared about famine or drought. So long as the taxes got paid and they could go about their amusements, they never noticed what happened to the rest of the country at all.

But it was not complaint toward feckless nobility, or the struggles of his countrymen, or problems with the weather, that kept the village blacksmith outside his workshop one balmy afternoon.

He had something else on his mind.

Tom stood with back facing the building, leather apron cast off. One arm folded against his waist he lifted the other hand near his chin, rubbing grimy knuckles together absently. His brow wrinkled, teeth slightly clenched, anyone could see he was lost in thought.

He had work lined up aplenty. Though the stone-lined fountain in the town square still stood fine, on people’s private lands some dirt wells and creeks showed signs of drying up, and it had set off a slight panic. Some had decided to attempt bringing part of the harvest in early.

But the ground hadn’t been tilled properly, and the earth was hard in places where the mud baked in the heat. There was already an assortment of farmer’s tools aplenty sitting on his workbench. Chipped rakes and dented plows, broken shovels and rusted scythes.

By accounts Tom should’ve heated up his forge and be busy over his anvil. But he didn’t feel like working. He was, admittedly, not the most driven of men. Anyway his tasks would keep.

From where he stood there wasn’t much to look at. Another alley, the dusty street corner, the shops nearby. Truth was, Tom looked before him without seeing, his gaze bleary, almost feverish.

Buried beneath talk of superstition, high society, weather and other such weighty manners, common gossip still went on. The usual tales of illnesses, arguments, travel and flirtations went around.

One such piece of news in particular had wound its way to Tom eventually, and sent his mind abuzz.

This past week a man had visited the shopfront of Madame Mayette Béguin and was let into the parlor for a social call. He carried flowers and was dressed in finer clothes than anyone in the village could afford – a real gentlemen, some had remarked admiringly; a true-fashion fop.

As the story worked its way from one speaker to the next, details were added and confirmed: the man was reasonably young, he did indeed work at the Prince’s castle as a manservant, his salary was said to be not inconsiderable, and – this part was always added in the most excited tones – he was _unmarried_.

There was no other reason for a well-dressed, unmarried man to visit with flowers at the home of a woman who had three daughters. He was a suitor. The triplets were out of their self-imposed mourning, or they would be soon.

This, to Tom, was news of great significance.

The triplets might’ve never paid him any mind over the years but like about everyone in the village he knew they stood no real chance with Gaston.

He’d kept to the hope that one day when the girls finally gave up, they’d look around and find _him_ , where he always made sure to be positioned nearby. Waiting, with bright eyes and an eager smile.

And now, things had changed, of course, but maybe – maybe this latest news meant that finally, he had his shot.

Was it cold of him to be glad the Béguin girls were moving on? That anyone was mourning Gaston a little less? Truthfully, Tom felt a bit like a poacher. And despite the months he still felt a pang of sorrow for the source of admiration that would grace their humble village’s presence no longer.

But life, he reflected earthily, was for the living. Maybe someday he’d tell stories of Gaston’s victories and prize hunts to his own children. But to have children one preferably needed to be married – and to be married one had to get to courting.

Tom looked forward one day to having a wife. But first, he looked forward more to having a sweetheart.

His thoughts hovered with this other man, this unseen rival. Peeved over some rich servant stealing one of _their_ village girls away, but he’d be foolish not to concede class and position could be an attraction to some. He could see how the triplets with their high taste, instilled by their mother, could’ve fallen.

(There was the one confirmed visit, perhaps a second. To many a village housewife that interpreted as a romance deep in its throes, with an engagement any day now.)

Tom couldn’t guess which of the three the man might’ve settled attentions on, if indeed he had. Perhaps for the moment he was enjoying having his pick. Tom would have felt likewise, were he in his place. While the triplets weren’t truly identical, he’d not gone past fancying them at a distance for their prettiness. He hadn’t considered individual merits.

Elise was the bashful one. Eliana was the proudest. Eloise was the most dutiful. Really, any of them would do well – he was content to let his rival make first choice, and then move in on whoever was left.

Tom’s mind wandered with ideas. There was to be some sort of ball at the palace again come December, there was already strong rumor of that. Celebrations were a good time for flirting, everyone already in a festive mood. If he started setting aside money now he could probably afford new clothes by then, since he’d want to look his best…

Dick found him still standing there some moments later stroking chin with one hand, when he came ambling down the street.

“Afternoon, Tom.”

“Ah, afternoon, chum.” He brightened at sight of his friend. “Say, let me ask you a question: do you think it’d make me look more distinguished if I grew out my beard?”

“No,” Dick replied, blunt. He didn’t pause, not caring. “Got a spot of work for the day. Feel like chipping in?”

Tom’s expression had fallen at the rebuff, but he instantly perked up in a grin. “Absolutely.”

They exchanged conspiratorial, almost leering looks as Dick patted his shoulder. “That’s what I thought. C’mon – it’s this way.”

He gestured. Tom turned to follow him, easy. “What’s the story?”

“Ah, it’s Old Henri. The usual, I assume. He’s causing a scene, they want him cleaned out before it gets any worse. Don’t know if my boss will even bother to charge him.”

“Either way he’ll be sleeping it off elsewhere.” Falling into step, the two men turned sideways to ease through the streets as they got closer to their destination. “What’s got him going this time?”

Dick grunted, “Who knows, and who cares.”

Tom gave a chuckle in agreement.

They’d reached the part of town where it was quiet due to less traffic, the paint faded grey on the shops. These streets most only visited when they had to. The air was stale with odors from the tanner’s workshop, the tallow melting in hidden vats, the distilling elixirs of the apothecary. Nearby was the run-down inn where the wigmaker rented a room to meet the poorest farmgirls that came into town to sell their hair, and where the clientele drank more brandy than beer.

There was also a pawnbroker at the end of the street, a portly man who sold odds and ends. He now stood in the door to his shop with hands on his hips, gazing nonplussed at the figure in front of him.

“I’m telling you, it’s the truth,” Old Henri was raving loudly and gesturing. “Saw him with my own two eyes, I did! Standing close to me as you’re here now. And he gave it me fair and square!”

“Oh, sure he did,” the shopkeeper drawled. “Just last week the Duc de Maine came by and offered me his best chocolate pot.”

Half the doors in the street were open a crack, owners peering out to watch what was happening. Some of them clutched makeshift weapons. In the middle of the road schoolboys still in uniform stood in a cluster, pointing at Old Henri and jeering. A few pelted him with pebbles and clumps of dirt.

“All right, that’s plenty now out of you.” Addressing Old Henri gruffly, Dick came up and grabbed onto him by one arm.

Tom took the other side, pinning the drunk helplessly between them. He winked and waved to the assembled watchers, trying to shoo them off. “That’s enough excitement for the day, eh?”

The boys dispersed, the adults went back inside. Old Henri stammered protests but neither Tom or Dick listened to a word. They marched him through Villeneuve in their practiced efficient manner, drawing only the occasional glance until they’d dragged him to the village jail, where they threw him down in a cell and locked him in.

“That’ll keep you until tomorrow,” Dick spat after him. “The bailiff will decide what’s what, then.” He turned to where Tom stood, dusting off his hands. “Fancy a pint?”

“Of course. Hey, let’s go see what Stanley’s up to!”

That suggestion met with favorably, the pair went in search of the member required to complete their usual trio.

They didn’t have to look very far. This time of day, as almost always, he was at work in his aunt’s store.

It must’ve been warm inside the small crowded shop, because Stanley was out front leaning against the doorway. Eyes half-lidded, mouth in an aloof line, he’d an unfolded fan near his face he moved only intermittently; it seemed more an accessory to his pose than it was being utilized in a practical manner.

Tom and Dick exchanged a glance. Compared to them, their companion could be a bit… _funny_ at times. And for some reason he’d been prone to odder moods of late.

Dick cleared his throat and tried a little too hard to sound casual. “ _Allo_ , Stanley. How’s your day going?”

Tom couldn’t help craning his neck, peering past into the darkened interior. “Is, uh, the rest of your family in?”

The indifference he tried to ask with utterly failed: Dick shot him a disgusted look and Stanley’s eyes went heavenward.

“No, Tom. They are not. Auntie and the girls are out for teatime visits, again.” He leaned his head back into his disaffected posture and gave an airy sigh. “Another round of village socializing and hospitality.”

“Don’t know what that can keep everyone so busy, day after day,” Tom complained. “It’s the same over again: all royal weddings, wolves and weather.”

“Careful, now. Watch your tongue,” Dick objected, with a genuine look of alarm. “It isn’t wise to speak so lightly about this wolf business.”

“Ah lord man, not you too!”

“I’m serious.” His voice lowered, leaning to ensure none but his companions would hear. “This morning the baker’s lad was telling me there’s rumor now it’s not only a pack of animals. Some have seen a _meneur de loups_ as well.”

The words had the effect of dropping a cold shock over them. Tom fell silent and even Stanley lost his careless air, his eyes growing wide.

A _meneur de loups_ – a “wolf master”. A wild man of the woods, or sometimes even a _loup-garou_ , that had the power of controlling a wolf pack. It was the kind of thing only spoken about in whispered stories by old grandmothers, and only first after she crossed herself.

Some superstitions couldn’t be laughed off as only fairy tales. They were deathly serious, matters of survival. In a world where so little made sense it was unwise to dismiss things that could be hiding in the night.

A man who communicated with animals and had such a Pagan connection to nature; it could only be the work of sorcery, proof of contract with the Devil.

“Come off it. Jaspar’s having you on,” Tom managed to scoff, but inwardly he was shivering.

“No. He swears it’s true.” The men glanced at one another, and at the village around them. “Stories keep spreading. And the news only keeps getting worse.”

Tom wondered if the three of them were thinking the same thing. If the words Gaston had heatedly spoken that fateful night were resounding in their minds:

_“This is a threat to our very existence!”_

But if there really were monsters out there, what could they do about it?

The unfortunateness of it all. The person best qualified to lead a hunting party into the woods and defend their village was dead.

There was an awkward silence that hung, as none of them could think of something to say after that. Tom looked around, scraping for a way to change the subject, and he found it as his gaze landed on Stanley’s face.

“What’s…? Hey, there. You’ve got a little-”

He reached for the offending black specks, one above Stanley’s left lip and the other on his temple centered over his eyebrow.

Deftly Stanley snapped his fan shut and used it to block him, fending him off. “Leave it! They’re supposed to be there.”

“They’re _mouches_.” Dick snickered as Tom withdrew his hand, affronted. “Honestly, Stanley. Just because we have our own local nobility now-”

“Technically we have always had one,” he reminded them. “And lace patches are still in fashion. I’ve seen the latest design plates just come down from the King’s court.”

“Sure,” Tom retorted. “If you’ve got to hide the pox. Is it _fashionable_ to be acting so huffy now, too?”

“The word you are looking for, _mes amis_ …is languid. Jaded.”

Stanley gave a tilt to his chin they both would’ve mocked him for, had they not been at once so begrudgingly impressed: with a small movement he conveyed such _ennui_. He must’ve practiced in front of a mirror for hours.

“The worldly nowadays read poetry and philosophy and it makes them bored by everything. I’ve no interest in the reading, but I can adopt the attitude. You see?”

He affected another pose. While Dick looked entirely bewildered, Tom nodded in respectful admiration.

“That’s some first-rate languor,” he observed - as Dick stared at him in turn. “What?”

“Yes, it’s all about being emotionally detached from matters, at best mildly inconvenienced,” Stanley continued. “I find it easy and fitting to practice it, nowadays. It suits my mood.”

Something different crept into his tone on this last remark, some significance.

Dropping his head, he took on a curiously dark gaze. Watching something past them.

The two men turned, trying to see what he was looking at.

“Ah, look! There’s LeFou,” Dick remarked brightly.

He raised his arm to wave but LeFou didn’t see. He was strolling towards the potter’s tent, and upon reaching him he and Monsieur Jean started up an animated conversation. It looked like the older man was giving him a basket full of something.

“You know, it seems he’s been doing a lot better of late,” Tom said.

“Aye, I’ve noticed it too,” Dick agreed. “I’m glad for him. I was getting a bit worried for a moment there, I tell you what.”

Tom could only nod sagely. Of course LeFou had good reason for sorrow – maybe more even than it was polite to mark on. But it’d been heartbreaking to witness a usually buoyant man so unhappy and forlorn.

Now though their friend and neighbor appeared back to the chipper character they were used to dealing with. The past few days especially – he was so full of energy and good cheer, always smiling.

He’d been awfully busy though, which was a shame. Tom couldn’t remember the last time they’d all sat down together. Though LeFou moved through the village with a friendly word for everyone, when he didn’t have business to keep him, he seemed to constantly vanish.

But Tom couldn’t hold that against him. Truthfully, LeFou was the sort of person it was difficult to have any grudge with.

“These days,” he went on, casually, as they stood there watching from their distance, “it seems like there’s something…different about him. I can’t put my finger on it.”

Maybe he simply didn’t have the words.

Observing LeFou, he could almost swear it was as if the past few months had never happened. _That_ was how cheerful he was.

More than that, even. It was like he’d something else to him, that he didn’t used to.

As if there was… _something there_ , that wasn’t there before.

“He’s gone back to not having a mustache,” Dick guessed, spotting it.

“Nah, that isn’t it. I don’t think it’s something physical.”

Tom wracked his brain hard, for one of the few rare times in his life.

“It’s like it’s in his attitude. But I wonder what it could be?”

“But of course. I do wonder what could have happened, indeed,” Stanley put in, sourly.

He waved his fan shut again with an audible snap.

*

The happiest part of LeFou’s life, in his childhood days, undoubtedly began when he and Gaston grew close.

Gaston had many friends, of course. But none was quite like LeFou. Whereas the others might drift away at times, bored with always following his lead, LeFou never left. He never wanted to.

He’d been awed by Gaston from the start, infatuated before even knew it. To a boy like LeFou, always cast aside because he was considered too slow, too homely, useless and unwanted, when Gaston appeared – athletic and good-looking, universally adored – it was like watching a miracle made flesh. He couldn’t take his eyes off him.

He’d gazed at Gaston in speechless fascination for months, unnoticed among the rabble in his gang of followers.

Then one day everything changed.

It was after lessons, the time of year when it started getting darker early. Tired, restless, ready to go home for supper, the boys that lived in the village scattered. Gaston lingered outside the school, making ready for the long walk back toward the woods.

LeFou would never know how he found the courage. He simply didn’t want the day to end, to be separated from Gaston any sooner than he had to.

Approaching the other, he cleared his throat, saying the first thing he thought of.

“Would you like me to carry your books?”

Gaston had looked around, startled, almost confused. Like until then LeFou faded so much into the background, Gaston didn’t even recognize him. He frowned.

“I can carry them myself, surely,” he retorted. Even then his voice carried a confident, boastful note.

“O-of course you can,” LeFou agreed instantly. “You’re the strongest in our class! Bet you’re the strongest boy in the whole village, even.” His mind raced. “But…it’s not that I think you _can’t_. I mean, you shouldn’t _have_ to! You’re better than that.”

Gaston swelled at the compliment, and he considered it. “You know what? You’re right!”

He dumped his stack of books into LeFou’s arms unceremoniously, and his lunch-pail too.

And they walked the whole way to Gaston’s house like that, side by side, Gaston telling stories and bragging without stop, save for the occasional silence LeFou filled with praise and laughter at his jokes.

It didn’t matter by the time LeFou got back to his aunt’s house he was exhausted and it was completely dark. He went to bed that night bursting with happiness.

And that was it. Just like that, it became the pattern of his life.

He cringed now, looking backward. He should’ve outgrown that childish subservience long ago. There should’ve been a point where he stopped doing everything and going everywhere simply because it was what Gaston wanted.

But it never happened. His usefulness made him special to Gaston, gradually bringing them closer through childhood, through youth. Then the war came, and LeFou followed him into the army – creating a bond that made them inseparable.

And now? He had to admit, it was easier than it should be, falling back into habit.

LeFou knew he was slipping. Everything he’d decided, all that he’d grown in their months apart, now here he was again – cooking meals for Gaston, washing his clothes and taking care of things for him. Hurrying from the village to get back to him, waiting on his needs. Like nothing had changed.

He’d even gone back to dressing the way he had before, mostly, right down to his hairstyle and the bow around his throat. Odd as it felt – he’d also sort of missed this.

And though he was certain Gaston had no qualms about kissing a man with a moustache, he’d still made enough hinting remarks on what he felt about how LeFou _looked_ with one – that eventually he rolled his eyes, wordlessly went to shave. He didn’t like his new whiskers _that_ much; it just wasn’t worth it.

He was doing it again, he knew: he was giving in, because it made Gaston happy.

It was worth it to compromise though when it was things he didn’t care for that much, wasn’t it? It was worth it to compromise in the name of love.

Because things weren’t entirely the same. There was one key way in which they were very different.

Gaston might be falling asleep in LeFou’s bed at night, but this time LeFou was there with him.

And he was happy, so very happy. _They_ were happy. In the end LeFou felt this happiness was so much more important than pride.

There were plenty of men in the world that wouldn’t agree, he was sure. That was fine by him. This was his nature, this was what he wanted. This was his.

 _Gaston_ was his. Finally. His and his alone.

Every day brought new pleasures mixed with old joys. They’d sit by the fire, feet up, laughing in the familiar way, then their eyes would meet and there’d be a jolt of fondness in how they looked at one another, sweeter and deeper than what’d been there before.

LeFou would be rubbing Gaston’s shoulders and decide to run hands down further, bending to press a kiss to his neck.

A companionable silence would be broken by Gaston reaching to thread fingers through LeFou’s hair; to sit beside him touching him affectionately.

They were learning new intimacies about one another, the one secret they’d left to give. It was a curious exciting exploration they were on, together.

LeFou might’ve had more knowledge at the start, about this, but his enthusiasm was more than matched by his lover.

And every time they were together Gaston grew bolder. More assured. His hands and mouth roved in new directions; almost daily he was willing to try new things.

It wasn’t long before he was what LeFou always imagined he’d be. He was a conqueror in bed, a sheer unyielding force. He held LeFou down, manipulating him easily, hands strong and touch rough, his desire hot and demanding. And LeFou gave in every time.

Why shouldn’t he? This was what he’d wanted all along. This was his fantasy: to be pinned by Gaston, to be taken by him. To have the breath stolen out of his lungs, gladly made to plead and moan.

What Gaston wanted, he took. But LeFou had no regrets over what he willingly gave. What he wanted to surrender.

Besides, it wasn’t only give and no take – not when he wanted something else. He would always remember the way that Gaston had given in first, to him.

He could get that again, whenever he felt like it. He only had to push.

They’d wrapped themselves in a little bubble, a world made for the two of them alone. LeFou might leave - to retrieve food and supplies from the Potts family, to put in enough appearances around the village no one might get suspicious – but he hurried back. Together they did everything. Ate meals, talked, drank and sang songs, went walking in the fields beyond the village where no one would see them, and worked in the yard doing chores.

It was a life LeFou never really thought he’d have. So comfortably _domestic_.

There was a routine to it. He got up first, usually, so he’d extract himself from Gaston’s arms, glance back fondly at his sleeping face, and go to make breakfast.

It was three days after Gaston got back from the woods LeFou’s hens started laying again.

“Eggs!” Gaston exclaimed happily as he saw the omelet laid out for him on the table. “Finally! I hope you didn’t get them off Francis, though. His asking price comes a little dear.”

“He has to make a living.” Seated by the back door, LeFou was polishing Gaston’s boots. “And no one ever complains about how much his wife asks for her jams, you know. Even though it’s about as much.”

“That’s because Hortense is much _prettier_ than Francis,” Gaston said, as he sat down and picked up his fork, in a tone of voice like it should be obvious.

LeFou made an amused sound. “In any case, no, I did not buy them from Francis. My hens appear to be feeling better.”

“They must have missed me. They’re celebrating my return!”

“Or they’ve given up the notion they’ll ever have peace again, and yielded to their discomfort.”

Gaston shot him a look, frowning, but LeFou didn’t acknowledge it.

He kept his eyes on his work, handling black leather expertly. “Gaston, what have you been doing to these? You only got them this spring, but the soles are all broken in!”

“How should I know?” came the reply – distracted, muffled through a full mouth.

LeFou shook his head, not sighing, unsurprised.

When he was finished eating Gaston leaned back in his chair, letting comfortable silence remain, the only sound that of LeFou putting the finishing touch on his boots.

Idly he ran hand across his own hair, frowning as he considered the ends of his ponytail. “I believe I’m about due for a trim. What do you say?”

LeFou glanced up, taking it in with a scrutinizing eye from where he was. “Yeah, probably.”

Normally this would have been the cue for him to leap up, retrieve a comb and clippers and dutifully set to work on Gaston’s hair at once.

But he didn’t do that. Instead, he said nothing else, and once again put head down and returned to the boots.

A moment dragged out, as LeFou now lingered intentionally, whistling slightly as if without a care in the world.

“LeFou!” Gaston said at last, indignant.

LeFou looked up, giving his most innocent smile. “Yes, Gaston?”

He was fighting a scowl, clearly put out LeFou wasn’t being obedient as he once was in attending him.

But after a few seconds he got the hint and recalled himself. Carefully he rearranged the features of his expression.

“LeFou,” he said with forced lightness, and careful polite purpose, “would you be so kind as to cut my hair for me? Please?”

“Why, _of course_ , Gaston.” He rose, wiping his hands. “It would be my pleasure!”

Gaston was visibly disgruntled. It took him another moment to remember to say “thank you”. But he didn’t complain, and at least he seemed to have gotten the point.

Maybe it shouldn’t have been enough. It wouldn’t have been, for some.

But LeFou tallied those victories. Intermingled with quiet times, listening to each other’s breathing; of lying there, skin to skin. It kept him satisfied, that he’d made the right choice. It kept him warm.

He’d been happiest for years, when all he had to think about was him and Gaston – it felt so good, to have that again.

Days went by. They had another wonderful evening. Gaston had vanished for a few hours then returned with a deer carcass carried across his shoulders, beaming triumphantly.

As he laid his kill out to clean it, LeFou couldn’t help eyeing it in admiration. It was a fine animal. Its meat would make a good supper.

There was a single neat bullet hole in its neck: a perfect kill, efficient. Clearly Gaston hadn’t lost his touch.

“Some things never change. You never miss a single shot,” he remarked in offhand respect.

Gaston made a sound of agreement, holding head up. Smug. Basking under the slightest compliment.

LeFou’s eyes narrowed as he watched him. Incredulous despite himself.

In comically exaggerated fashion he went, “Golly, Gaston! You’re the greatest hunter in the whole world! No animal alive stands a chance against you!”

“I know,” Gaston said, sarcasm lost on him.

It was too much. LeFou clasped a hand to his mouth to hold back his snort of laughter.

It took Gaston a second before he noticed, giving a bewildered and suspicious look.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s…nothing.” Still laughing quietly LeFou came to hug him from behind, wrapping arms around Gaston’s middle, pressing face against his back. “I missed you, you know. I really did.”

He wanted Gaston to be better. But he had to be honest: he didn’t want him to _entirely_ change.

After supper when LeFou turned to the dishes, he asked him to help – and when Gaston scoffed and protested he’d already done his part by providing the meal, LeFou reminded him lightly that _he’d_ cooked, so why didn’t they split the cleaning up to keep things even? He’d wash, Gaston could dry.

Gaston had pursed his lips and considered that, hard.

Eventually he had to concede it made sense.

As Gaston joined him over the scrub-bucket, LeFou ducked his head so he wouldn’t see him smile. He didn’t want to explain why he was acting so pleased.

When they fell asleep later, LeFou was concerned with nothing out of the ordinary.

But in the middle of the night he woke up abruptly, groggy and disoriented. Unable to shake the vague sense that something was wrong.

Still blinking his eyes clear he reached out to the mattress beside him and found nothing.

“Gaston…?” he called, feeling the kick of nerves in his stomach.

He turned his head and discovered the other had crawled to the opposite side of the bed, practically off onto the floor.

Twisted in the blankets he’d curled up on himself, knees near his chest. He was shaking, shivering, his breathing sharp between clenched teeth.

LeFou put a hand on his back and almost recoiled in alarm. His skin was feverish to the touch, beaded with cold sweat.

“Gaston! My god, what’s wrong? What’s happening to you?”

He couldn’t seem to speak past ragged breathing. He looked over his shoulder, eyes pleading with something LeFou couldn’t name. His face was contorted in pain.

Trying to swallow away his panic LeFou climbed out of bed, wrapping a bedsheet around himself, distracted.

“I-I’ll get some water,” he decided aloud. He didn’t know what to do, but he had to do something.

He padded quickly across the cool wooden floor of his house, trailing sheet behind him. He crossed by the window, walking through a beam of moonlight.

Then he stopped. He went back, and looked up into the night sky.

At the orb that was hanging there: nearly full.

He counted in his head. He was a fool. He couldn’t believe he’d somehow forgotten.

He went back into the bedroom, staring down at Gaston.

“It’s the moon, isn’t it? It’s almost full. You can’t fight it off.”

Gaston managed to sit up, clutching to himself. Strands of mussed hair hung haphazardly in his face, damp with sweat.

“It’s trying to make me change,” he confirmed, hoarsely. “But I…I don’t want to. I want to stay here – I _need_ to stay.”

LeFou took in the sight of him, thoughts churning anxiously.

He should’ve tried to inspire Gaston to fight, shouldn’t he? To hold onto the part of him that was human.

That was what should’ve seemed right. The triumph of will and spirit over dark magic.

He knew, though, that it was a mistake to think it so simple: that there was a clear divide between man and wolf. He’d plenty of opportunity to observe Gaston and he still saw it here and there in flashes.

No matter how human he looked, it was there. Like a layer of fur just beneath his skin.

The wolf would have its way. Trying to fight it was only hurting Gaston. And for what?

He couldn’t explain it. Intuitively he felt, that thinking this could be overcome through struggle was the wrong notion.

LeFou knew that there were some battles you couldn’t win.

“But you’re in pain.” He weighed the options, somber. “I don’t think you should keep resisting. If you lose control, it’ll probably only be worse.”

He came back, kneeling on the bed beside him. He stretched out his hand. “Gaston…”

He whimpered and flinched beneath LeFou’s touch, as if it was too much. That silent plea was strong in his gaze as he looked to him in desperation.

“If I go like this,” he whispered, “what if I don’t make it back again? What if I can’t?”

“It’ll be all right,” LeFou said. There was no room for second thoughts. “You’ll find your way back. You did once before, remember?”

He waited for Gaston to pick up this thread, like he did usually. For him to bounce back at slightest encouragement to his pride.

But he didn’t. He stared at LeFou, shaking head unevenly. Face creased not only with discomfort but from more than one conflict raging within him.

Too overcome to hide it, he was anxious and afraid.

“You don’t understand. The full moon; it makes things… _different_. This is the longest I’ve ever held it off, before.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “It might be too much. What if…what if I forget?”

LeFou moved closer, directly in front of him. He held to Gaston by both shoulders, squeezing him in his grasp.

“Then I’ll come and find you again,” he stated. “I promise.”

Gaston looked to him and LeFou held his gaze, forcing himself to be calm even though he could feel his eyes shining.

“I won’t let you lose your way. Trust me. Now go on. Do what you have to do.” He repeated, forceful, “ _Go_.”

Gaston caught his breath in a sniff and nodded. He got to his feet. Fumbling he got dressed as LeFou watched, silent.

When he was finished he staggered towards the outside, motions stilted, bent with pain.

It almost hurt to watch him, but LeFou followed. There was nothing he could do to change things, but he couldn’t let him do this alone.

His back to the cottage, Gaston’s fists clenched tightly at his sides. Pale beneath the moonbeams he swayed, and for a moment his figure seemed to distort like it were a mirage.

The next thing LeFou knew the big black wolf was standing there.

He thought it turned back to look, once – he thought he saw the flash of yellow eyes.

But it was over too quickly. Before he could be sure, there was a blur of black fur. And he vanished.

Just like that the wolf – _Gaston_ – was gone, bounding off into the hillside in the dark.

And LeFou went back inside and stared at the wall as he laid down in bed, alone.

There was nothing he could do now but keep up hope. And wait.

*

The black wolf had been caged for so long, too long. The moon called out and he had to be free.

Bursting from his prison, the form that trapped him, he ran.

Away from the sounds and smells that frightened and confused him. To the wilds he longed for. He _ran_.

The moon was bright, the night alive. The need to hunt urged him.

Long legs stretched as he loped off, fast as he could move, faster. Cool wind against his sleek hide, breath sharp through his muzzle, striking against his teeth. There was pent-up energy in his cramped muscles - he ran and he ran and he ran.

He forgot what had been. There was only the now. Sight and scent, fur and fang, hunter and prey. He lifted head to sing to the sky.

He was a wolf, with wolf needs and wolf hunger. The only things that mattered.

He was far from familiar territory but he couldn’t wait. What was closer would have to make do.

The ground was dry and cold against his paws, and there were many flat open spaces where danger lurked. The roads walked by humans. The farms they guarded.

He hid beneath clusters of trees, staying to the edge of the forest. He slept during the day; by night he caught foxes and weasels and rabbits. He filled his belly and soothed his need to be free. He chased and hunted and _ran_. Ran until he was tired, curled up on the ground, awoke and ran once more.

But he was alone. No other wolves here. Where was the pack?

He could find their scent, if he wanted. If he tried. He thought of the others, the ones he was used to running and hunting with. The big grey, the amber-eyed little one, the three females, the scrawny brown and the red wolf and-

A scarred muzzle flashed into his mind. A fearsome growl. Fangs showing, wicked, as one gold-yellow eye gleamed.

 _The she-wolf_.

No. He would not go back to her. He couldn’t. Solidly as anything, he knew that. The black wolf shuddered.

He did not belong there, anymore. He couldn’t go back to those woods; it was no longer home. They were not his pack.

He had no pack.

He was a lone wolf. A rogue.

The black wolf howled a note of sorrow. His ears and tail hung low.

Wolves were not meant to be lonely. They needed the strength, the support of their kind. Without a pack, what was he to do?

The black wolf looked to the far horizon. He could leave, he could wander; find new territory to make his own. Perhaps there were others out there, far away…

He could hunt elsewhere and run far, far away.

But soon as the notion to leave came, something stopped him. The image of a face and memory of a smell.

The human who touched him, soothed him, held him close. The one who ate with him and slept with him; the house that was a den. A strange den, not like one the wolf would have chosen naturally, but a den nonetheless.

The wolf was not alone. He did have a place and someone to go back to.

 _His mate_.

Yes; the thought surfaced fuzzily, then grew with more and more urgency. He had to return to his mate.

He left the shelter of the shaded trees and went back the way he came. Ignoring unease he felt at passing through these unnatural lands, with so much signs of danger.

It didn’t matter that it wasn’t right for a wolf. Still this was where he had to be. _This was where he had to be_.

Run run run, now with new purpose. Not running away, toward freedom, but towards _safe_ and _home_.

Running to his mate, to where they could be together.

It was twilight as the big black wolf slunk towards the cottage. In the shed the horse whinnied and stamped its hooves, and the chickens nervously clucked.

The back door opened. A figure emerged onto the porch, carrying a small woven basket. He dropped it as he looked up and saw what was there in the low light.

“Gaston?” he called out.

The sound of his name rung through him like a bell, resonating inside his head.

_Yes, yes, that’s me._

As he trotted the last few steps across the yard the wolf shuddered and faded and changed back to a man.

“LeFou!”

He held out his arms, grinning.

LeFou ran down the steps and practically flung himself on him, and Gaston embraced him tight. Tucking his face against his shoulder he breathed deep of LeFou’s scent.

“I found the way back. You were right! I thought of you and I…”

Trailing off he let go enough so they could look at one another.

“You were right,” he repeated, feeling elated and exhausted and reassured.

He’d never seen LeFou so overjoyed. His fingers curled tight to the front of Gaston’s shirt. It would ruin the fabric if he kept on that way but neither of them cared.

“I’m glad,” LeFou exhaled. He looked as relieved as Gaston felt, like the last days had been a trial for him.

Gaston considered his tired face.

“How long was I gone? When was the full moon?”

“Two days ago. You were gone five days total.”

“Five days,” he echoed, slowly. “Why, that’s nothing!”

Normally with the pull of the moon, he was compelled to change for weeks. It took forever to be able to become human again.

He felt a surging triumph. He was gaining control over this. He could resist the change more, come back from it sooner. It was true after all: he was learning to fight against his curse.

And it surely helped now, that he had something to fight for.

But as he turned his fond gaze on LeFou again, he saw the other man’s shoulders sag.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Five days,” LeFou said again, mumbling. “I completely forgot.”

“LeFou?” He gave him a little shake, trying to get his attention. “What are you talking about?”

He lifted his head and looked Gaston dead in the eye.

“Five days is how much time we have left now, too. The Prince gave us until a week after the full moon. Remember?”

Gaston stared back at him stricken, realization gradually coming over him. Slow at first, then terrible and swift.

He understood – as much as he wished it wasn’t so. They’d been so distracted by their blossoming romance, somehow it’d slipped their minds completely.

He wasn’t a free man: he was a criminal with a sentence that’d yet to be delivered. In five days’ time the Prince’s men would come, and they’d take him away.

All this happiness they had between them - but things were not so simple as they seemed.

They’d been living on borrowed time. And now, too close for comfort, the date with judgement loomed.

*

If the weather was empathetic, often the way of stories or songs, at that point winter should have begun.

Skeletal trees and biting winds, bleak landscape without color or life. Devoid of warmth; stifling, gloomy. That would’ve suited.

But no such thing occurred. It stayed warm, or warm enough for that time of year. The trees grew richer in autumnal hues while in the fields shafts of heavy wheat shone gold. The air smelled pure, inviting with promise, in only the way a lingering seasonal change in the open country could.

Gaston and LeFou could enjoy none of it. Their little bubble of happiness, their daydream state, had burst.

They did not speak much anymore. Abruptly, there seemed nothing left to say.

Meals were still cooked and eaten. Chores were completed, clothes cleaned, fires built on the evening hearth. But everything seemed half-hearted now. There was no pleasure, no real comfort in any of it.

The little house was quiet. Both knew what hung overhead, but neither knew how to comment on it.

The days passed by. They’d had a week together, a week of happiness in each other, in almost a honeymoon state. Now they had less than a week left.

Less than a week until Gaston would be taken away. Then what fate would befall him? He’d be imprisoned, or – worse.

Both men tried not to let themselves think through to it: no matter the final outcome, it was unlikely they would ever see each other again.

LeFou watched from the corner of his eye, at how distant Gaston’s gaze often looked, how serious his manner. He rarely smiled, now.

LeFou felt helpless, for he didn’t know what to do. Neither of them did, but LeFou was used to his role. He was supposed to try and _fix_ things.

It was quietly chilling, that this time he didn’t know how.

Gaston’s moods came in fits, strong and swift as so much about him. But when his temper turned towards the sulking or brooding, it could be hard to pull him out without making things worse in the process - or losing a hand. LeFou was practiced in the coaxing required, the right ways to nudge Gaston’s attentions onto something else.

But this time there were no thunderclouds over Gaston’s head. It wasn’t anger that plagued him.

Or if it was, it was buried deep down, underneath something else. Something more complex, almost philosophical even, so unlike what he felt normally.

This wasn’t disappointment with a missed shot or fuming over hurt pride. This was fear, and doubt, and the sinking feeling that could only come with a looming unpromising future.

And LeFou’s own feelings were mixed, ironic, as he observed this: his friend at last capable of deeper sentiments and introspection.

But he couldn’t do anything to help with that. It was the sort of pain, the sort of burden, there was no easy cure for.

Anyway – how could he make Gaston feel better, when for the same reasons he felt as bad himself?

Everything pleasant turned so bittersweet. Every touch and caress made LeFou want to cry. He lay awake listening to the sound of Gaston’s breathing, a hitch in his chest at the sheer familiarity. Years of memories stirred, and he felt the constant ache of looking backward to happier times. Knowing it was the past now.

 _Not again_ – would he really have to live through this, again? And would he even make it through, this time?

He was trying not to look too far ahead. Trying not to contemplate that possible future where he was alone once more. Only this time it would be worse, because of how things had been…different.

He wanted to say it was worth it, no matter what. Worth it for the bliss they’d shared. But God, the pain – it hurt just to contemplate losing this.

The days became broken down into moments and it was hard not think, every minute, their time together was like grains of sand trickling down a fast-running hourglass. Soon it would be all be gone.

Close as he and Gaston were physically the silence stretched between them, because neither of them could voice these things aloud. It was too much, too terrifying. They glanced at each other, seeing shared truth in each other’s eyes. The awareness, the fear, the heartache.

Then quickly they looked away again.

A twilight impasse. Being sure what was on the other’s mind, what they were feeling. Yet so long as they never spoke, they were locked out from each other and could only guess.

LeFou wondered at times if Gaston considered his lover’s shared unhappiness. Or if, as typical, his concerns were only for himself.

But it was such a mess already. He couldn’t make himself care enough. Maybe it should’ve felt more important to him, but it just…didn’t.

Time continued to slip through the hourglass, and then it ran out. Morning dawned, and they both woke and dressed with awareness this was it.

The last day, before they came for Gaston and took him.

LeFou still wasn’t sure what to do, but he knew he needed a distraction. They both did. The cottage was feeling claustrophobic rather than cozy.

He got to his feet, went and stood in front of Gaston. Projecting an air of simple determination, plastered on over his anxiety.

“We should go for a walk.”

Putting on their coats and hats they followed that old path together, up the hill and out into the fields surrounding Villeneuve.

The air was cool, but it was a breeze rather than a wind. In early afternoon the birds were gently singing. The faintest dew still clung to the grasses and brushed against their clothes. It was beautiful out, the trees ablaze in brightest oranges and reds.

Gaston turned his head, and LeFou gazed at his profile. The sunlight caressing the broad lines of his chin and cheekbones, glinting on the dark strands of his hair.

LeFou choked back a sob, feeling both broken and proud.

 _I will never forget this,_ he promised himself _; the time that he was mine._

Then he followed the path of Gaston’s sight and his feelings twisted.

The hunter was staring out, towards the horizon. Far away from Villeneuve.

He remembered, what felt like long ago now, when Gaston accepted how much trouble he was in and his reaction had been to talk of running away. Confronted with the truth of his sins, the magnitude of his crimes, and all he’d wanted had been to escape.

Was he thinking the same thing, now? For all they’d spoken of and what had happened, maybe he hadn’t really changed.

Gaston breathed in, deep and slow. Like he needed to absorb the view as a taste on his tongue.

“Look at this,” he remarked. “It always was my favorite sight.” He gestured.

“To one side…the village, our world. My domain. Everything in its place, everything one ever needed. To the other…potential. Adventure, the unknown! Endless possibly. When one desired it.”

He turned his neck to look down towards their village, expression wistful and sad. LeFou didn’t have to try very hard to interpret what he was thinking: Gaston had lost his place, his right to call Villeneuve home. It wasn’t “his domain” any longer.

From his perspective, the whole world was out of joint. He was lost.

Again that strange tug of sympathy at LeFou’s heartstrings. He couldn’t say in good conscience that Gaston hadn’t earned this for himself. Still, he ached for the loss he was feeling. He knew how hard it was, to feel like you’d nothing to live for anymore. Like everything that mattered was gone.

For Gaston, always childishly sure of everything, it must’ve been doubly incomprehensible.

Moving to put the village at his back Gaston peered again out at the open world, the expanse of nature that eventually led to the rest of the country, to the north. The swelling rise and fall of verdant fields, the distant clusters of forests.

“It would be so easy. To just go. Vanish from this place, find somewhere else to start again.”

LeFou squinted against the light framing Gaston’s upper body as he felt a tremor up his spine. Without realizing it his fingers curled, starting to clench into fists.

Before he could reply, before he could even think what he’d do if Gaston wanted to run – would he even be able to stop him? – his companion looked back at him, a sad smile creeping across his face.

“What’s the use, though?” he said with tone of surrender. “What would I even do with myself, when everything I’ve ever loved is right here.”

LeFou relaxed, even as he returned that sad smile.

Of course. Gaston had gone away seeking glory, but instead of staying out there he’d come home to be praised. Despite his vanity he was a curiously simple creature. In his own way, a small-town boy at heart.

He loved Villeneuve, the ordered and rustic life there. Their sleepy backwater ways; the well-worn grooves of their interconnected community. He’d tried to earn his place as the town hero – maybe he couldn’t picture a life worth living without that.

Then LeFou belatedly realized, Gaston wasn’t looking at the village behind them. He was looking straight at him.

His mouth parted slightly as he was stymied what to say, caught completely off-guard.

Beneath the shadow of the brim of his hat, the smiling expression was gone from Gaston’s face in favor of something more strained and emotive. “LeFou, how long have we known each other?”

He stammered silently another second. “Most of our lives, I’m sure.”

Perhaps what Gaston truly meant was how long had they been friends. LeFou wracked his brain and shook his head.

“I don’t know. It’s got to have been about twenty years.”

Even remembering that first day, it was difficult thinking back to whatever they were as having had a beginning. It seemed almost timeless, such a constant for them both.

“All this time,” Gaston sighed out. “If only I could’ve…”

He trailed off. It looked too painful for him to finish that sentence.

LeFou felt his face heat from a rush of blood even as the rest of him went cold. He put together what Gaston was saying. He was regretting what might have been.

If only Gaston realized the truth sooner, that he could have loved LeFou. They could’ve been together this whole time.

Instead of having barely two weeks, they could have had years and years. _If only…_

LeFou looked at the ground, discomfited, biting his lip and eyes stinging.

He reached for the other’s hand, looking at him. “We’re together _now_ ,” he insisted “That’s all that matters.

Gaston cupped his jaw and rested fingers against his chin. His eyes were shining, a glimmer. He gave another smile, one even more forced and sad.

“I want you to remember me as my best,” he choked out, demandingly. “Promise me, LeFou. That when you look back on these times, that you’ll remember me as I was. Not what I became.”

LeFou’s heart stuttered in alarm, and he could’ve sworn it nearly stopped.

What that request implied was horrifying. Gaston had given up entirely. He thought he was already good as dead.

He couldn’t even salvage some crumb of victory from the notion of him gaining self-awareness. He understood Gaston and how he ranked his priorities too well. He wasn’t talking about the mistakes he’d made, the awful things he’d done and how it ruined him.

He was talking in more direct, straightforward terms. He thought the worst of how he’d fallen, down to being what by his own definition was undesirable.

He didn’t want to be remembered as a pathetic outcast, a werewolf. He wanted to be remembered in the height of praise, human and heroic and glorious.

LeFou shut his eyes, hands going to grip the ruffles at Gaston’s shirtfront; knuckles resting against the solid heat of his chest, under which his pulse steadily thrummed.

He was torn, not sure what to focus on. Frustrated by how even now there seemed so much Gaston missed. He wanted to chide him for not seeing what was important. For still not being able to acknowledge his own faults, or accept his crimes with the magnitude they should be viewed with – not for what it cost him, but the damage done to others.

But he didn’t want to waste precious time beating his head against that wall again. He didn’t want to go out on another argument.

“Look at me,” he said. “Don’t jump to conclusions just yet. This is far from over. We still don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow.”

Gaston countered, “I know _exactly_ what’s going to happen tomorrow.”

“No. You don’t. I don’t, either. The Prince is no stranger to mercy. There might still be a chance.”

If it wasn’t a lie, it was very close to one. It seemed impossible to imagine how this could have a happy ending. How everyone could be satisfied even as it turned out right and for the best.

But if he couldn’t imagine it LeFou let himself hope, nonetheless. He didn’t have a choice.

He patted Gaston on the ends of his shoulders, the same way he always would when he tried to calm him down. Reluctant as Gaston remained, out of habit he relaxed into the touch. LeFou gave him a squeeze. He tried to sound airy, optimistic.

“Don’t give up! All right? You need to be ready to face the future with your head held high. Like you always do.”

With every ounce of his energy he willed it to seem possible. He willed Gaston to believe him.

Maybe in the end he was humoring LeFou. But Gaston took on a faint version of his old confidence, and he nodded.

“Yes. You’re right. If anyone can get out of this…” He faltered again.

LeFou picked up the thread, not missing a beat. “It’s someone as fast and clever and favored as you.”

Taking up Gaston’s hand, he laced their fingers, gave a tug.

“Come on. Let’s go home.”

“Home,” Gaston echoed softly, somber. He followed LeFou’s lead.

They trailed through the familiar way back, surrounded by the gentle beauty of nature that for many years they’d shared. Everything seemed so much more fragile now, more significant. Every rustle of the leaves, every blade of grass.

They must have come this way a hundred times. Today it seemed both different yet very much the same. And for that it stood out even more.

For the first time on this walk holding hands, as lovers.

The rest of the day passed in the blink of an eye.

In a way it was almost a relief. The lingering worry becoming more palpable weight by every moment, threatening to crush them.

That night, neither of them wanted to make love. They merely laid close in the dark, clinging to one another.

LeFou couldn’t be certain because they were back to not speaking, but he suspected it took forever for them both to fall asleep.

*

The morning seemed too bright, too warm, like nothing about it was welcome. Unpleasantly hazy. The way it always did after a rough night.

LeFou rolled out of bed and set his feet on the floor, sitting there as he rubbed his forehead. Trying to banish the slight ache in his head, the stiffness in his upper back. He must’ve spent most the night in an odd position, his face pillowed too much on Gaston’s body – neither of them wanting to let the other go.

Knowing the inevitable couldn’t be put off forever he got up and went off in search of things to do. He should get dressed. He should make breakfast, if either of them felt like eating.

He should find out where Gaston had gone off to. Even if there was nothing left to say.

He wasn’t terribly surprised when he finally found him, he was standing in front of the mirror.

Rather than waxing praise over his own reflection though Gaston was silent. For him, very nearly stern. The light in his eyes was more determined than excited, chin up, mouth set in a line as he looked himself over in an attentive manner. Treating it like the utmost importance.

He’d washed and shaved already, his nails and hair and clothes clean. He had on a cream-colored shirt with especially thick ruffles, dark brown slacks and a beige waistcoat with faint golden trim. He was wearing the boots that’d been most freshly polished.

LeFou’s eyes landed on the red military coat that’d been folded nearby, waiting. He did a doubletake.

“You’re wearing that?” He tried catching Gaston’s gaze in the mirror. “You’re sure?”

There was a pause as Gaston smoothed his shirtfront, eyeing his jawline for missed stubble. He looked not into LeFou’s eyes but his own, with the composure of a man keeping a great deal of emotion at bay; he nodded, stiff and firm.

“Yes,” he declared. His teeth showed as he spoke with defiant, grim pride. “Let them have a reminder of just who it is they’re dealing with.”

LeFou nodded back, understanding.

He picked up the coat, unfolding it neatly as he helped Gaston put it on. Their motions practiced as Gaston held still, arms out, so LeFou could brush the fabric across his shoulders.

He never stopped looking in the mirror, as if he was using the sight to rally himself.

LeFou paid it no mind – he just did what he always did. He slicked back his hair for him and tied it perfectly. He dusted off his clothes and straightened the fabrics, making sure not a thread was out of place.

Gaston took one last long wordless gaze at his reflection. He turned around, distracted, spreading his arms slightly: prompting LeFou to say something, out of habit.

“Well?”

Normally he’d compliment Gaston by telling him how manly he looked. How handsome, how bold, how dashing.

LeFou’s voice was quiet as he went with words more honest to his own feelings, but no less sincere.

“You look beautiful,” he told Gaston, doing his best to sound encouraging. “And brave.”

Gaston blinked once in subtle surprise, but he didn’t appear offended by the change.

“Thank you, LeFou,” he responded with soft gratitude.

He looked down at his friend, throat working, vaguely contemplative. As if he’d only just fully realized the other was here.

“These past few days…” he began, struggling.

“You don’t have to say it,” LeFou stopped him. “I know. I feel the same.”

Gaston was silent a moment, dropping in his gaze, considering in the direction of his feet.

Then he closed the distance, taking LeFou’s temples between his hands. He leaned so their foreheads touched and their eyes met directly. Until it seemed too much for him and Gaston’s lids fell halfway closed.

“Thank you for giving them to me,” he whispered. “ _Mon amour._ My best friend…”

LeFou’s face contorted with pain. He wasn’t going to ruin this by crying, or he didn’t want to – but it was hard, so hard.

He grasped Gaston’s wrist and felt his pulse against his thumb. He tried to absorb everything about this, from the smell of Gaston’s breath to the warm texture of his skin.

And then from outside they heard the rustle of a harness, the sound of dirt road crumbling beneath carriage wheels.

They both went still. Gaston turned, looking towards the sounds.

His thoughts were no longer there with the two of them, LeFou could tell.

He pulled away. Breathed in once through his nose, then out again.

“Steady, Gaston,” LeFou murmured from behind him.

Gaston nodded. He stood at full height, steps heavy and stride even as he went out the door.

LeFou collected his wits before following after.

The carriage that awaited was undoubtedly the Prince’s. Its wheels were wide, lifting passengers far off uneven roads for comfort as they traveled. The edgings around the coach were decorative, gilded, and above the doors was a subtle display of the Prince’s coat of arms.

But under the circumstances it looked almost as foreboding as the asylum-keeper’s wagon. It seemed too black, too large, looming before LeFou’s small cottage like a blemish on the landscape.

Beside the carriage stood three guards in uniform with pikes. The slightly jowly man with grey hair was clearly in charge, the two men accompanying him younger. A fourth guard was seated on the box still, serving as the driver.

The guards kept watch as Gaston approached, hands fixed on their weapons. LeFou wondered if the Prince had warned them about his curse. Or if he was considered dangerous enough on his own.

After all, from their perspective, they were dealing with a treasonous individual who’d tried to kill their noble master.

Gaston walked to meet them until he was just over an arm’s reach away. Then he stopped and stood there, waiting. His bearing was resolute, a frown etched hard on his face. Borne by his sense of self-importance, he refused to show fear or even much deference.

LeFou lingered further back. Watching in attentive silence.

If it’d been him, he didn’t know if he could have held onto the composure Gaston displayed. If he would’ve been able to march out there like that, keeping his head upright.

The leader of the guards fixed his gaze on the hunter and addressed him with solemn scowl.

“Gaston Bûcher, you are under arrest on the authority of His Grace, the Prince-”

Another sound, or rather a flurry of them, caught LeFou’s attention. He looked up the pathway towards the village and his heart leapt to his throat.

A crowd was gathering. Drawn by the presence of the Prince’s carriage, the unusual activity for this part of town and time of day, a group of twenty or so people had drifted to the edge of the market square.

Shading their eyes they tried to see what was happening, muttering and questioning one another. Slowly but surely the group started to trickle closer, moving towards them.

 _No,_ LeFou protested in thought, numbly.

But of course: what did he expect? It was late morning, practically afternoon. And the guards must have traveled straight through Villeneuve without any regard for secrecy.

The curious villagers wouldn’t be able to miss this happening, and they wouldn’t be able to resist.

“-for the crimes of attempted murder, unlawful imprisonment, committing public treason in both word and deed against a noble house, bodily assault against members of a noble house, trespass, unlawful destruction of property, and inciting mass civil unrest.”

As the crowd of witnesses grew closer and closer, LeFou watched as their faces changed. The shock and disbelief, even horror, some displayed as they absorbed what they were seeing.

He heard astonished gasps of Gaston’s name. The whispers grew in intensity. Some expressions began to darken.

Gaston had to be aware of the people, had to hear them. But he didn’t turn to look. His arms hung straight at his sides, hands in fists.

Still, practiced as he was in reading him LeFou thought something in him shifted. A tightening to his posture; a prickle of shame.

Bad enough to have to surrender himself like this. But having a group here to watch his ignominy, the same people he used to thrive on having the respect and admiration of - knowing soon the whole village would surely know?

It would be Gaston’s worst nightmare.

LeFou caught a glimpse of the triplets, clustered together. They were about the only ones who looked remotely pleased by this development. And even they appeared shaken; after all it wasn’t every day in Villeneuve somebody you knew came back from the dead.

There was audible sound of someone spitting on the ground in disgust.

“Gaston!” one person finally exclaimed, loud enough to be heard. “ _Mon dieu_ , how can it be?”

As if it unblocked a dam, this gave way to other voices to rise.

“He’s alive? Has he been here this whole time?”

“It’s not possible!”

“What’s going on? Did anyone else know about this?”

And then, it happened. A familiar voice chimed in, loud and clear over the mumbling.

“LeFou knew.”

His head whipped to one side as he stared.

Standing beside his cousins, Stanley had arms folded. His face was jealous and full of dark resentment.

“He’s known for months,” he went on, flatly. “He’s been hiding him this whole time.”

LeFou felt his skin burn as some of those disapproving, disbelieving eyes turned on him.

A sinking weight in his stomach, he gazed at Stanley, pleading.

The other man wouldn’t look at him, or give any other response.

The leader of the guards had gone on speaking as if nothing was happening. When he finished his proclamation he stood there, watching Gaston with barely concealed contempt.

“Have you anything to say for yourself at this time?”

“No,” Gaston answered, in the commanding self-righteous tone he would in front of any audience. “I’ll save my words for when I stand before the Prince himself.”

Stubborn to the last. Despite how his pride had to be suffering, he refused to let it show.

When none of the guards said anything he looked between them, impatient.

“Well?” he demanded. “Is there anything else?”

The leader and one of the guards shifted aside, as the third member of their number moved forward.

From his coat he produced a pair of heavy wrist irons.

A spark of rage flickered across Gaston’s face. LeFou felt ill.

Though they knew he was being arrested officially, it’d occurred to neither of them Gaston would have to be shackled.

Placed in chains, like a true convict. In front of all these watchful eyes.

Gaston trembled, but he seemed to have resigned himself to his fate.

He took a step forward and silently held out his hands, fingers clenched and wrists up. His expression twisted, swallowing back humiliation, as the guards seized him.

There was a weighty sound as the irons were locked into place and he flinched like it caused him physical agony.

Some members of the crowd had begun to hiss and jeer.

By the time the guards held the carriage door open and ushered Gaston within, his shoulders had started to slump. Head hanging, his eyes towards the ground.

It couldn’t end like this, LeFou realized. Not for them.

He wouldn’t let this be the last moment they ever had.

Breaking free of his paralysis he ran forward, holding out a hand.

“Wait!” As the guards stared at him, warily, he gulped. “I’m coming too. Let me ride with him.”

“That won’t be necessary,” the leader replied.

“Please?”

LeFou tried to look tall as he could.

He reminded them, sharply, “Remember, I’m the one who arranged all this. This peaceful surrender? It wouldn’t be happening without me.”

He couldn’t read the older guard’s face as he considered this argument, and though only a few seconds passed in his anguish it felt a small eternity.

“All right.” The leader finally nodded, and he gestured curtly to the carriage. “Get in.”

LeFou sucked in a breath, both in relief and to steady himself. Moving quickly before his nerves could catch up to him he hurried over to the carriage and hopped up on the steps to join Gaston.

No sooner had he sat on the bench across from him than the door was slammed shut behind them. The guard shouted a command, there was a crack of reins, and they were on their way.

Villagers jumped back from the road as the carriage rushed past them. Faces moved by in a blur, too fast to be processed.

The houses and shops, the stalls and fountain and lampposts, every road and alley they ever knew – it flickered by the window and then was gone.

And just like that, it was over, even as the reality was beginning to sink into LeFou’s mind.

The village, their home, was behind them. What lay ahead was the unknown future.

There was no more time, or turning back.

*

In the time of the current Prince’s father, it was necessary his household make frequent trips to Versailles.

Their late master had no great love of the atmosphere, indeed came as close to private scorn for the King as his own breeding could allow.

But personal inclination had little, or very little to do with it. For a noble to know any peace or security it was required he pay decent homage to the royal center of power.

If in the time of Louis the Grand, he wished to continue his own unchecked reign deep in the French countryside, amassing lands and riches, he needed to be careful. The main court could never be ignored, because in his absence he would be forgotten – new favorites would press for rewards, and what easier but to carve up the fortune of a man the Sun King had no attachment to?

If he wasn’t there to keep abreast of newest rumor and scandal he left room for people to whisper, plant doubts as to his loyalty, if only so they would profit by his downfall.

The then-Prince was not interested in advancing his name at court. To enter too far into the King’s orbit would mean never being permitted to leave. It was a complex, masterful game he played in his lifetime. Cajoling and flattering just the right amounts to be well-remembered, but left alone, to come and go as he pleased.

These days Louis the Grand was no more – long live his great-grandson, Louis the Beloved. And so too had the lord of this territory in the countryside gone to dust, replaced by his son and successor.

Prince Adam had even less interest in Versailles than his father. He’d been brought there many times while the man still lived, from an early age – what better place for one being made pupil in the ways of arrogance and vanity?

Adam had enjoyed the entertainments, the parties and gambling, the fireworks and operas and ballets. He’d enjoyed the wit and flirtation. But he was spoiled of it too early and so by the time he’d inherited his full title he was utterly bored.

Louis XV was not as paranoid as his predecessor, not as prone to zealous social machinations. A complimentary letter could do as much to placate him; a well-timed visit every three or four years. He’d liked Prince Adam well enough when he was young and the King not old yet and they’d met more frequently face to face. That hazy recollection of fondness was enough to keep His Majesty respectful of the lands inherited by a man whose pedigree was so impeccably full of the finest noble blood of France.

In any case, Adam had no need to play the political game. Unlike his father he’d no interest in increasing his largesse. He’d only wanted to be left alone, to amuse himself.

The curse may have changed his attitudes, but regarding Versailles they’d not altered his desires. He was less interested now than he’d ever been – even more leery of the dangers posed by frivolous spiteful aristocrats, now that he was no longer quite of a piece with them.

But the royal court loomed with a power that could not be safely ignored, and even halfway across the country its icy gaze peered after them, judging and watching.

While the curse had been in effect they were forgotten, not just by their loved ones but by the whole world. When it broke, they’d been remembered.

A short time after the letters began to arrive. Some flustered, others stern bordering even on angry. How could it be there’d been _no communication_ for several years?

Replies had been sent, rapidly as possible, some dictated by the Prince and others written out by his own hand. Deepest apologies were made but he’d suffered from a lengthy illness that left him utterly incapable of anything but isolation. If necessary, he could provide testimony to this story from his household and the physicians that’d been at hand to treat him.

There of course would be no request for that. In the manner he’d worded references to his “illness” he’d done much to imply what he’d suffered was a prolonged fit of madness; the very idea far too alarming and offensive for anyone of breeding to want to hear any more details.

It placated their overseers, for the moment. But they were not out of the proverbial woods just yet, and they would have to make up for the lost time.

Since his restoration the Prince had thrown two parties to which he’d invited the nobles of the countryside. Before winter set in, he would have to have at least one more. Invitations had been sent and though preparations would not have to begin for weeks certain parts of the household were already throwing themselves into a tizzy.

Of all this, history and current circumstance, Plumette was well aware.

It was the lot in life of a maid in such a place – for there to be much that went on above her head, the intrigues of nobility, yet due to her placement to quietly absorb most of it.

It was an art to which fewer could aspire than might be thought. Decorative yet unobtrusive, efficient but reserved, dutiful but never cloying. Plumette had been born to it. She’d been raised in it.

And despite every reason she had not to be, she was fond of her master as many under him were. She performed her duties to perfection because she wanted him to be happy – him, and his wife especially.

Without the slightest semblance of nosiness, Plumette observed everything around her. She listened carefully for words that would lose their innocuous appearance in hindsight.

She did not do this out of ego or for her own amusement: she understood this as part of her responsibility. It behooved her to know what was happening _before_ it happened. To read shifting moods in the chambers she entered, as a sailor would the tides.

This sense of duty plucked at her, like hidden gossamer thread, as she slipped throughout the castle on that late autumn morn. An awareness that never left her limbs, not quite.

Plumette moved from room to room, giving some only a glance; swanned through others to lay her hand on things, a graceful touch here and there.

It was moments like these, when the only sound was the swish of her gowns as she walked, that the castle seemed to grow in size. It was a stately sense, not an unnerving one. It made this place – her home – seem more secure, more ancient.

But it was an austere sense, too. The thick carpets and curtains swallowed up the tread of her slippers. The occasional chatter between staff as they worked vanishing into the corners at opposite ends of the enormous rooms.

The castle would never seem so large, or gloomy, as it had during the curse. When Plumette had become small and the beautiful estate they’d toiled over so reduced to a ruin. And surely, she imagined, she would never forget _that_. Much as even now at times the memories seemed so strange as to be impossible.

Still, times like these she would nearly swear she could hear the castle breathing. It stood poised between one moment and the next, a feeling everyone was warily afraid to move too suddenly and break.

Something was about to happen, and it stood there, just waiting to begin.

Today at least there could be no mystery. Like everyone in the castle, Plumette knew what today was. The arrangement that’d been made.

She counted the hours on the faces of clocks and watched the sunlight passing through the windows, doing a calculation in her head. How many hours until the carriage would reach the village. How many hours until the guards returned, bringing their prisoner with them.

A chill pulled at those threads of her duty, sending vibrations running along them inside her.

Before dinnertime, it would all be over. But Plumette didn’t know what was going to happen. No one did.

As she reached the upper floors of the castle she scarcely paused as she turned the corners in the hall, passing by one polished wooden door after another, the privacy granted to the rooms intended for use by the masters of the house and their guests.

But she hesitated, stopping with one foot raised mid-step, as she reached a door that’d been left open.

She drew a silent breath as she considered, casting her gaze briefly to the golden paint of the vaulted ceilings. Then she turned and entered her lady’s room.

Belle was seated in front of her vanity. Back straight, hands folded in her lap, gazing in the small mirror before her.

Her hair was down. She wore a robe over a long chemise; she hadn’t dressed for the day.

Plumette stopped half a room’s length away from her. She lowered herself into a proper deep curtsey, though she kept her neck at an angle learned from experience. She could still see Belle’s face without lifting her head.

“Madame?” she inquired politely, concern hidden away in her soft voice. “Is there something amiss?”

Belle sighed, not moving her gaze, though she turned her head slightly.

“No,” she said, in a tone implying there was, but she was at too frustrated a loss to name it. “I’m only trying to decide about something, that I’ve little experience.”

Plumette waited a beat and then gave a slight nod, more to herself, catching her breath again as she resumed standing.

Belle didn’t like it when they waited for her word to recover – and often she forgot to give it, anyway. Especially when she was thinking like this. It was charmingly naïve and stubbornly egalitarian of her.

Plumette drifted forward until she was near enough to rest one hand, lightly, on the back of Belle’s chair. Hesitating she looked down, across the spread out on the vanity table.

Cosmetics and hair ribbons and jewels. A mix of finery Belle was sometimes repulsed by and completely inexperienced with.

“Would you like me to help you, Madame?” she suggested. “It would be my pleasure.”

She’d more or less taken on being the new Princess’ lady’s maid, and for occasion where more courtly glamor was required had been all too glad to wait on her. If it was mere lack of knowledge and confidence that stymied her, in this Plumette had more than enough art for two.

Instead of pouncing on this suggestion brightly however, or even with resignation, Belle said nothing at first. She looked down, at the diamonds and gemstones that were now hers. At the silks, the perfumes and fine rice powder.

Reaching out she fingered a necklace. It was a heavy thing, constructed of pink and purple stones that would make her eyes look darker, her youthful complexion blush.

She gave an odd smile. There was a flash of something in her eyes – reproachful, tinged bitter.

“I never cared for such things,” she remarked. “I always felt it a telling weakness, to be too obsessed with the superficial, and ignore every quality that lay beneath. I could never understand the appeal to – to put on a show.”

Plumette’s back straightened at this last phrase, at how significantly she said it. She stilled and endeavored to catch Belle’s eye in the mirror.

Belle let her. She looked abruptly tired, as she let Plumette see it all.

The anger, the confusion, the touch of shame.

Sudden and perfect, Plumette understood. It was not the physical objects Belle spoke of having no familiarity with.

It was the sting of being wronged, the desire for petty revenge. Even if it was through means she previously abhorred.

Gaston’s star had fallen. Belle’s had risen. What would be more effective against someone who’d tried overpowering her but to rub that change in status in his face?

It was a perfectly human inclination. To appear as the noblewoman bedecked in finery, more beautiful and polished than ever before. To shame and spite him with what he’d tried to possess forcibly, how he’d failed.

Plumette could know it, this feeling, perfectly. It was a subtle but biting blow, a weapon fitted for the arsenal of one used to working within the constraints of society and femininity; every move needing to be careful and almost never safe to be direct.

But she understood how it could be so alien and uncomfortable for Belle.

There were many kinds of wisdom in the world. Plumette had seen countless men who were undoubtedly highly-learned who were completely clueless about women – just as she had more than a few very smart ladies who didn’t know a thing about men. Belle had been given the best attempt at a Parisian education that her father could manage. She’d grown up reading every book she could get her hands on, that the limited resources of her village could provide. But whether intentional or not she’d held herself apart from company, from people her own age, and other girls and women most of all.

There were some things about human nature that could only be learned by interacting with it. Thoughts and feelings, little impulses and instincts betrayed in subtlest shifts of expression and body language. Jealousies to be tamed and charities to be courted, tempers to be soothed and curiosities stoked. Being around others brought more of it out in oneself, but it also made it easier to recognize and understand.

Plumette would never call Belle a child. But even as she respected her mistress, she couldn’t help thinking of her with the fond protection one would towards a younger sister. In a way she was only beginning to grow and bloom.

And Plumette was watching it happen, pleased and encouraging and every so often concerned. Trying to nudge her into staying on the right path.

Delicately she reached around Belle to pick up a hair broach from the vanity.

It was a perfectly circular sapphire, faceted to turn pale but brilliant blue in the light, the size of a gilded button on a man’s overcoat. The setting was thin gold, three white ostrich feathers pinned at the corner.

In the flat of her palm Plumette held it, considering.

“It can be easy to condemn things when one has little encounter with them,” she observed. “Laziness, selfishness, anger…pride. From the outside a flaw seems obvious, simple to avoid, when it’s one you’ve no opportunity to cultivate.”

She leaned so she could hold the gem where Belle could also look down at and admire it. Plumette shifted to a wryer tone.

“It is easiest to chide for succumbing to temptation, when one does not know from firsthand what that temptation feels like. How strong its pull, how good it would be to give in.”

Belle’s face softened as she listened to Plumette speak, relaxing further and further. Now she looked up curiously, some of her usual brightness in her eyes.

“To hear you talk like this, I wonder what sort of _temptations_ it is you’ve had to resist.”

Plumette heard the undertone of playfulness, and it brought a smile out of her.

“Ah, never you mind that today! Perhaps those are stories for another time, after we have come to know each other more.” She showed her own playfulness briefly as she feigned scolding her. “My point for right now is that there is nothing wrong in taking a little pride in the way one looks.”

Not looking at Belle’s reflection but her actual face, she reached to smooth an errant strand of golden brown hair behind her ear.

“Surely you are not unaware of the beauty you yourself possess,” she added, gentle.

Belle lowered her gaze slightly in confirmation to this remark, silent at first.

“I never cared much one way or the other. It didn’t seem to matter – or, it shouldn’t. It was all right enough to accept as fact when I was a little girl and people would remark what a pretty child I was. But then I grew older. And the same words began to sound so different in how they were said.”

“Yes,” Plumette could only agree, meeting the Princess’ eyes in the glass.

Camaraderie among women of that indescribable feeling that ghosts along the skin - at the thought of looks and remarks and a hundred tiny little things that seem so unimportant one at a time but together make up the delicate stitches pinning one into a cage.

Belle twitched her head, almost shuddering.

“Beauty itself has nothing wrong about it,” she declared hotly. “There’s no fault in admiring a piece of art, or…or something made beautiful by nature, like a lake or a flower! But in a _person_ there can be so much more going on underneath the surface, and so to focus so only on that-”

“Peace, Madame.” Plumette ran hands around Belle’s temples, down the sides of her face and to her shoulders, fingers so light it was as if she barely touched her. “You are right. Of course, you are right.”

Under Plumette’s touch that stiff tension in Belle’s body went away. Her shoulders which had been practically raised up around her ears in indignation slowly lowered as she relaxed.

“But we all like to take nice things, once in a while, to enjoy ourselves. Do we not?”

She waited for a moment to see if this statement would be objected to, and when it was not she went on.

“And sometimes, those ‘nice things’ can be ourselves. A little pampering. A little finery.” Using the feathers on the broach she still held, she tickled the end of Belle’s nose and the side of one cheek, until she giggled. “A little chance to shine. _Non?_ ”

“Maybe,” Belle admitted, reluctant. “But, when it comes to the reasoning…”

“I know. It is a thin line to walk, sometimes. Knowing you have a right to victory and wanting to revel in it. But wary of going too far.”

Plumette took the ornament between both hands. Deftly, she grasped and twisted, snapping off the feathers in one small flourish.

The jewel by itself she then pinned into Belle’s hair, pulling back part of her locks right at the corner of her temple. Plumette smiled at the result in the mirror.

“It is a matter of finding a way to meet in the middle.”

Belle had to smile back at her in response. Encouraged by this, Plumette gave her cheek an affectionate brush with one thumb.

“So. Would you like me to help you prepare yourself for battle today, my lady?”

Belle gave out a sigh that carried far less surrender than it did relief. Even as she sat less straight in her chair, her core of character seemed to be growing stronger and more assured again.

“Yes please, Plumette, if you would,” she decided. “I’d be ever so grateful.”

“Not at all, Madame. The pleasure is all my own.”

*

If LeFou had owned a pocket-watch, he imagined he’d be staring at it nonstop by now. Watching the anxious minutes and seconds tick away.

Not knowing at what point the end would draw near, only that it would have to be sooner and sooner as the time passed.

They’d been on the road for what had to be hours by now. The village had been left far behind them, lost to mere memory. Leaning head and neck to his left against the inside of the carriage, LeFou glanced at the scenery passing them by, ignoring the slight jostle of progress on the uneven road.

But there wasn’t much to see by now as they’d crossed into the thick of the woods.

It seemed far darker outside than it should, given it could still only be late afternoon at most; the overhead cover of trees crowding together blotting out the light from the sky.

So much of the forest looked the same from the road and their rhythmic pace, the way everything whipped past sight like it was being carried along by a river, caused time to blur. Before he knew it LeFou was slipping back in his mind, back to that fateful night when they rode into the woods with torches, leading an angry mob shouting as they brandished weapons in the air.

He wrenched himself to the present. Swallowing he backed away from the window, deciding the view wasn’t helping him relax.

The thought he could do anything to relax at this point was of course laughable. He knew this road and how relatively short a time it took to travel. These horses pulling the Prince’s carriage were a good team too, swift and sure of foot.

And he knew what awaited them at the end of this journey. Or at least, he knew the options that possibly awaited them. How few of them were any good.

Giving a shallow gulp, LeFou looked over to Gaston.

He sat almost at diagonal to LeFou on the seat opposite, back straight with his left shoulder almost against the cushioned side. His legs apart slightly his hands hung down between them, the heavy irons around his wrists occasionally making sounds as they were shaken by the carriage.

LeFou glanced down at them, feeling ashen and sick, then made himself look back at Gaston’s face.

He was carrying himself upright, expression grim but otherwise blank. The way he was staring straight ahead made it seem like he was intently watching outside.

But LeFou knew him too well. He recognized that almost feverish glaze to his eyes. The man saw nothing in front of him. He’d gone off, somewhere, inside his head.

Normally that’d mean he was back during the war, somewhere. But though he seemed otherwise calm, he wasn’t acting happy enough to be mentally reliving the blood-soaked days of his glory.

“Gaston?” he verbally prodded him, delicate.

He didn’t start in response to LeFou’s voice. Almost as if he’d been waiting for it he subtly shifted, eyes sliding over to stare at his companion with only slightly more focus than he’d been giving the road.

LeFou leaned toward him and gave his voice more insistence.

“ _Gaston_. Look at me. Pay attention. Now’s not the time to lose your head, all right?”

“That’s a funny choice of words, LeFou,” he muttered. Spreading palms he glanced down at his shackled hands.

LeFou was speechless, though he was sure he looked green at the mental image Gaston had summoned.

He didn’t know if he should reproach him for making such a joke right now, or if he should be encouraging him in this gallows humor if that was what it took to keep his spirits up.

After a moment Gaston noticed the look on the other’s face. He forced a tight smirk.

“Relax. We both know I’m not to be beheaded.” He threw himself back against the cushioned interior of the carriage with a huff. “My father was a lowly tradesman. I don’t _deserve_ such a regal end.”

LeFou didn’t want to think about it, but he knew Gaston was absolutely right. There would be no headsman with an axe or a sword awaiting him, if execution was indeed his fate. That was reserved for those of only highest status – not a part-time huntsman and erstwhile soldier. Probably he would face the hangman’s noose.

 _If he was lucky_ , an ugly and awful voice hissed from the back of his mind.

The accusation was treason, and that usually carried a nasty sentence. A public spectacle to ensure anyone else who might be tempted to defy the right of kings would be suitably warned off. Drawing and quartering, all sorts of things LeFou had only seen in woodcuts.

Not to mention – a worse possibly presented itself: Gaston was a werewolf. That meant he was a heretic.

And heretics were burned at the stake.

He held in his moan, pressing hand over his mouth until he could keep his panic and dread at bay. Until he could keep the images out of his head.

This wasn’t helpful. It didn’t do either of them any good, for him to break down now.

He scooted over so he sat directly across from the other.

“We can’t think about that right now,” he insisted, voice briefly choked. Words as much for his own benefit as they were Gaston’s. “It won’t do any good. It can’t change anything. All we can do now is-”

“Wait,” Gaston finished hoarsely. There was a beat of silence before he went on. “You know I always despised the waiting most of all.”

“I know.”

He could picture it clearly, the heady tension before every battle. Men lined up, weapons gripped tight, officers trying to hold the horses they sat astride still as they waited for the order.

While LeFou about thought he might die of anxiety every time, the grim specter of what awaited them growing larger over the horizon – while he was _struggling to breathe_ , Gaston would be restless. He’d pace, he’d mutter, every muscle in his body tighter than a coil of rope. Occasionally he’d grumble out a demand to no one in particular, what was _taking_ so long. He was always impatient to get started, eager for the fight.

There was something unsettling in him, then; something almost frightening. A darkness in his eyes, an edge to his mouth. Something that made LeFou almost afraid to get too close, unsure what might happen if he lashed out.

He had no way of knowing what he saw then was a preview. That this was the form Gaston’s temper would take the years after – something that’d always been inside him given shape and then left with no place to go when war was done.

Would he have done anything different then, if he’d known what was coming? If he’d realized it would eventually lead them here? Was there anything that could have happened between then and that fateful night on the road, when they took to the castle to kill the Beast?

But there was no point in thinking about that either, LeFou reminded himself. The past, it held so much – if he kept looking back he risked being choked by regrets.

And he’d miss every moment they had remaining. Every precious second.

He caught his breath and started a soft singsong under his breath.

_“No one hits like Gaston, matches wits like Gaston, in a spitting match nobody spits like Gaston…”_

He drew out the notes long as he could, not raising his voice any higher for fear it might crack.

Gaston’s eyes darted in surprise, at first staring at him with puzzlement and then his expression gradually softening into touched disbelief.

His head hung slightly as didn’t seem to have the energy to sing back, instead going for a low murmur that followed the familiar tune:

_“I needed encouragement. Thank you, LeFou-”_

_“Well there’s no one as easy to bolster as you,”_ LeFou responded perfectly.

Their eyes met as they shared a brief smile at the familiar memories, a silent almost-laugh.

“Too much?” LeFou offered, teasing.

“Never,” Gaston responded, face falling in earnest as he said it. LeFou’s smile dropped too, uncertain how to respond. “I’m…so glad you’re here with me, you know. Truly, I am.”

There were a lot of things someone like Gaston would never be able to say.

LeFou got the strongest impression of one of them just then: that he wasn’t certain he’d have been able to do this alone.

He reached to rest his right hand on Gaston’s leg, heavy with affection.

“Where you go, I go,” he said. “That’s the way it’s always been, the two of us. Together.”

“Together,” Gaston repeated, giving him a look of such bittersweet heartfelt ardor, it was all LeFou could do to smile back at him, the best he could, the same way.

Who knew how long it was they two simply sat there gazing at one another like that. Perhaps they’d have passed the remainder of their journey that way: each looking at the other man’s eyes, gathering the affection between them into a ball, holding onto it long as they could.

But suddenly Gaston twitched. He moved his head a way LeFou recognized, how an animal started when it heard something unexpected.

He stared out the window again, at something in the forest, and his face grew pale.

“ _No_ ,” he gasped.

Jerking out of LeFou’s grasp he brought his arms to one side and proceeded to slam himself against the inside of the carriage door. He tried to use one elbow to smash the window.

“Gaston-” LeFou gaped at him, trying to grab him before he did something they’d both regret.

“Stop the carriage! No! We need to _stop!”_ He kept up his struggle, frantic. “They have to stop it before – we have to get out!”

“Gaston!” He managed to seize his arms, doing his best to make him be still. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

When he turned to look at him, his eyes were wild and desperate. “Out there,” he stammered. “Look!”

Not knowing what else to do, LeFou followed his instruction. He gazed into the depth of the woods.

If one looked hard enough they could make out the image of the castle from between the trunks like a specter. But that wasn’t what Gaston was looking at, clearly, because it wasn’t what caught LeFou’s attention either.

Far enough from the curve of the road it wouldn’t be spotted unless by chance, there was standing a giant white wolf.

A scar blinding one eye, the other flashed as it stared right at the carriage. It spread its lips to show teeth in a silent leer.

As it leapt down and vanished into the hilly terrain, there was a flicker of fur from other spots nearby in the forest’s underbrush. More wolves following.

Gaston had said there were more. That there was a pack. That they hadn’t wanted to let him go.

Now they were in the woods - _their_ territory.

LeFou sharply turned to stare back at Gaston in perfect awful understanding.

“Oh no,” he gulped.

*

The destination the Prince’s men aimed for was not the castle gates. At some point they’d followed a bend where the road turned subtly, heading towards the other end of the grounds.

Hidden behind the main edifice, the sweeping gardens, the beautiful view designed to impress visitors, to the back of the castle lay the functional framework. The stables, the laundry, the kitchens and yard, and other small brick buildings which would subtract from that etheral glamor.

It was towards this second entry, used mainly for deliveries and the travels of servants, they now headed. This was an ignominious journey, not a celebrated one.

Now that the inside of the carriage was occupied, two of the guard had taken a place standing on the back. Their leader sat up front beside the driver.

Save the one who held the reins, preoccupied with the road in front of them, to a man they had tired eyes. Training neglected they were more impatient than wary. The only trouble they’d anticipated came from the man they’d arrested. The last thing they were looking for was an ambush.

There came a loud, rumbling growl. The horses whinnied and shuddered, ears standing up in fright.

An alarmed shout rose from the rear of the carriage – the two seated on the front peered behind them.

The leader’s jaw dropped with a start. A sandy-brown wolf, bigger than any he’d ever seen, had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, headed straight for them.

The men at the back clung to their perch in terror, but though they’d be easiest pickings the wolf passed them right by. It ran until it was even with the team of horses and began snapping at their legs, trying to savage them.

The horses shrieked, wanting to bolt.

The driver struggled to control them as the man sitting beside him overcame baffled fear, yelling and waving his pike, trying to scare the beast off.

In defiance of how any wild animal should act the wolf ignored him, not paying any heed to the presence of humans in its eerily targeted attempts to attack the horses.

The creature’s teeth gleamed as it snarled and growled, a knowing malice in its narrowed eyes. Beneath dirt clinging to its fur its legs were long, its muscles large. Everything about its presence reeked of danger.

The leader of the guards was no coward, and by now no stranger to the unordinary. Still something about this creature chilled him to the bone.

“Look out!”

Another yell heralded the arrival of a second wolf, smaller and bulkier than the first, fur a tawny color almost golden. Dust from the road rose in clumps with how its paws raked the ground, rushing at full speed to join the other.

As the men looked back, its jaw hung open, eyes narrowed, tongue hanging to one side – looking like it was smiling at them wickedly.

If it joined the first wolf in frightening the horses, it’d be too much; they’d never be able to control the team through such panic.

Driven by desperate determination the leader gave a shout and swung his pike wide, ending in a fierce stab.

He succeeded in sticking the brown wolf in its back, near the base of its neck. It gave a pained yelp and stumbled, staying upright but losing speed and falling back, the carriage quickly outpacing it.

But he could hear his men at the rear crying out in protest.

Craning his neck, he beheld the incredible. The yellow wolf had given up on reaching the horses and was now attacking the rear wheel of the carriage, using teeth to try snapping the spokes.

The two guards back there fumbled to drive it off, using ends of their weapons to push the animal away, but they struggled to keep balance as they hung on, the carriage shaking back and forth.

And the brown wolf, no signs of slowing despite its injury, was moving to join the other. The lead guardsman set aside his pike, groping inside the front of his jacket. His fingers closed around the pistol he kept there, already loaded.

The carriage was swaying wildly now. With a yell of his own he drew and fired in a single motion, aiming where the wolves were clustered together.

Rocked back by the impact, there was a puff of gunpowder, for a moment the man good as blind.

When he looked again the road was clear. He could see no sign of either wolf.

No way of knowing if he’d hit one, but at least they’d been frightened away. He let out a sigh of relief. A lopsided smile crossing his face, he straightened forward again where he was seated beside the driver, shoulders relaxing.

The back entrance to the castle’s courtyard lay before them. As they drew closer, the wrought-iron gates swung wide.

And at that precise moment a third wolf, grey streaked with black, leapt out high from where it’d been concealed in a cluster of trees.

There was no chance to react. Paws outstretched, maw wide, it dove directly for the horses.

As a one the team reared back, screaming, completely uncontrollable. The carriage flipped.

Landing on its side, the momentum carried it forward to just within the opened gate.

From out of the woods appeared the white wolf with the scarred muzzle. Standing in the middle of the road it let loose a howl.

At that signal the rest of the pack appeared, heading straight for the castle.

Many things began happening at once as chaos broke out.

The space behind the gate had been far from empty. Waiting the carriage’s arrival had been another half dozen guards, several servants pretending to go about their business as they hung curiously nearby, the head of household huffing and fussily consulting his watch.

And there in the center of the crowd had been the noble couple. Bedecked in medium finery, arms linked, whatever quarrel they’d had leading up to this moment long forgotten. The Prince gave his wife’s hand a squeeze and she leaned her weight against him as they’d watched the final approach with trepidation.

Now they instinctively reached for one another, holding tight, as both let out startled gasps at this unexpected event.

Hardly anyone heard them. The air was already filled with sounds: the shouts and screams from both servants and guards, the anguished cries from the horses, the fearsome growls of the pack of wolves.

No one seemed to know what to do. At least one guard was already dead, thrown when the carriage upturned, quickly set upon by the wolves. The driver was limping, being helped off by his remaining fellow. There was no sign of their leader: he might’ve been trapped beneath the carriage. Three of the horses had broken free and raced around the courtyard, threatening to trample anything in their path. The last lay twisted where it fell, making distressing noises.

The wolves were everywhere. With no fear or regard for safety, they chased after unarmed servants and guards alike. The latter were at first too startled to try defending themselves. Few of them had muskets, and it would’ve been risky to shoot in such close quarters.

Maids and footmen ran about, desperately seeking a place to hide. Armed men stood frozen, staring, at a loss.

On the stone steps leading into the castle Cogsworth started to run back inside, stopped, then spun in a circle, puffing in feeble confusion. His eyes darted desperately, mustache twitching.

“Go and get help!” the Prince shouted. “We need more men!”

“R-right,” Cogsworth managed, panting, eyes wide.

A wolf with reddish fur snapped up a brazier full of coals that’d been burning near the center of the courtyard. Seizing it in its jaw, it gave its head a shake, tossing it into a nearby pile of hay.

The fire spread quickly, confusion increasing exponentially as smoke began rising in the air.

Sparks flew from the crackling flames. Belle and her husband were driven apart, crying out as they were forced to dive to either side for safety.

He recovered first. Glancing back to ensure that Belle was all right, he called to her, “Stay there!” before running to harry Cogsworth into trying to gather reinforcements.

Belle stayed low, gulping air, her skirts torn, the palms of her hands scraped from her fall. She tried to recover as, for the moment, her mind raced without purpose.

Too much was happening. All was smoke, the wolves, and people yelling.

Meanwhile from the overturned carriage came sounds of a struggle. Muffled shouts, hands beating against the doors.

Finally the glass in one window shattered as Gaston kicked it out. With a heave he threw LeFou to safety, before trying to twist sideways out the same opening and claw his way to freedom.

LeFou landed in a heap, rolling a fair distance away from the carriage. He stumbled up from the dirt and turned sharply, searching with concern for Gaston. But in the uproar and smoke he couldn’t see him.

After a few moments of looking around frantically, he spotted the fire. He saw how a group had formed trying to put it out, throwing dirt on it, beating it with rags, running to fetch pails and bowls of water.

Wanting to do something to help and at a loss what else, LeFou rushed to join them.

Back towards the steps leading out of the courtyard, Belle gathered her composure and stood. Glancing about her eyes landed on a broken piece of wood, probably from the carriage, and she seized it. Holding it in both hands she readied to use it as a makeshift cudgel, looking warily around her.

Gaston stumbled to his feet, fumbling with hands tangled in his chains. He straightened and turned – locked eyes with Belle, and froze.

Belle felt acutely, bizarrely aware of the details. Her lace-lined gown, her matching earrings and necklace, her hair half tumbled free of its chignon, the thin line of kohl around her eyelids. His hunting boots, the manacles on his wrists, his slicked hairstyle, his shirt disheveled beneath that obnoxious red coat.

The din of the courtyard seemed far away as they stared at one another across the distance, expressionless and wide-eyed.

The familiarity of him felt like a blow to her stomach. It was indescribable, seeing him again when for months she’d thought he was dead.

Seeing him again; remembering how strong he was when he’d pushed back at her, how his face looked when it turned in a sneer.

Belle felt fear rising, and with it her fury. Her fingers tightened on the weapon in her grasp.

But instead of coming towards her Gaston flinched – something else catching his attention. His eyes lost focus and he spun around.

A white wolf bounded to the courtyard just as he turned to look. Gaston stared at it and so did Belle, as the animal’s body rippled like water.

It reared back onto its hindquarters, twisting until it took on a human form. A tall woman, hooded cloak over tattered clothing, her long hair wild and silver-white.

Belle gaped at this, astonished.

It was one thing to know magic existed, another to see it. Even after what she’d already experienced, it was a shock to witness the transformation of a werewolf.

She watched as the woman stepped forward, leering, Gaston tensing as she approached.

A pair of guards rushed out, trying to intercept them with muskets held tight. The woman eyed them with a look of impatience.

Soon as the young men – and they were very young, Belle noticed; maybe the same age as herself – were within reach, the woman lashed out. Throwing an arm out almost carelessly she struck one in the center of his chest with force.

With strength that belied her form the man was hurled backwards. He collided hard with the wall of a nearby wooden structure – his body jerked as his neck snapped, and he crumpled like a discarded toy. He slid down in a heap, and Belle swallowed back a reflexive cry.

The woman tilted her head at the remaining guard. His mouth was open, queasy dismay across his features. Shaking he tried to aim his gun but his reaction was far too slow.

She shot out, grabbing his shirtfront, dragging him to her like he weighed nothing. She bared teeth – _fangs_ , tearing into his throat.

The screams, gargled through blood, pierced Belle to her core. No longer able to feel the club she grasped, she backed up until she hit the stone wall behind her.

The pale-haired woman rose from where she crouched, animal-like, over the body she’d savaged. Lifting head back she grinned: her mouth was covered in blood, staining her teeth, running to the hollow of her throat.

She fixed her gaze on Gaston, who was now retreating from her, shaking head stiffly.

“There you are, my pet,” she crooned. “Did you really think you could run away…from me?”

He made a sound of protest, but he didn’t have a chance to form any actual words.

As she paced towards him the woman lashed out again suddenly, this time with one foot. She caught his ankles in a sweep, causing him to fall flat on his back.

“I made you. I gave you this life with the curse that runs through your veins.” Her voice was taunting. “Everything you are, you owe to me. No matter where you go, no matter how far, I will find you. I will always find you. I know your scent. And it calls to me, my mate. You are _mine_.”

She was on top of him, kneeling on his chest, moving like she would crush him with her weight despite the differences in their sizes. He struggled but she held the length of chain with both hands, using it to drag his wrists up and pin them to the ground above his head, arms outstretched helplessly.

She planted a forceful kiss against his mouth, smearing the blood on her teeth to his lips; beneath her he gagged on muffled sounds as he failed to wrench his head away.

Belle could only watch the scene playing out, paralyzed – absorbing all, but too overwhelmed and shocked to analyze or have any reaction.

The woman was smirking, laughing to herself. He twisted his head away, spitting, trying to wipe off the blood. Ignoring him, she glanced up, and her gaze fell on Belle where she stood silently watching.

“Ah. _You_ ,” the woman remarked.

She stood, forgetting her apparent quarry. Behind her Gaston crawled away, scrubbing mouth awkwardly with shackled hands.

Belle barely paid him any mind. Unlikely she’d have thought it mere moments before, he was no longer the most dangerous thing here.

And she didn’t dare take her eyes off the threat moving toward her. She felt the rough stones digging into her back as she kept her head up, raising her improvised weapon high in defense.

She set her face determined with bravery, but she could feel herself struggling to breathe evenly through her nose.

 _Fearless,_ she’d wanted to be. Like her mother. And at the time she had been. But it was concern for her father that’d led her to face the Beast, and righteous anger that’d driven her through the fight with Gaston. Now facing _this_ monster, she had no one to protect but herself. And all she could think about was how easily she’d ripped apart a man’s throat.

She sank her weight into her heels, to keep her legs from trembling.

The woman stalked closer until she’d closed half the distance. A trail of smoke, flickering light from the fire danced between them, making her more eerie and distorted.

Her gaze was yellow-gold, inhuman, and she never took it off Belle. Her face twisted with scorn.

“I should have known from the moment I laid sight on you, you would be the one to break the curse.” She scoffed, disdainful, “Such a _spirited young lady_.”

Belle stared at her blankly, confused.

The woman’s expression took on exaggerated mockery. “What? Don’t you recognize me?”

Reaching up she pulled her hair away from her face, revealing a jagged scar. A face split in half, and one blinded ruined eye.

Cold recognition rushed over Belle. Her lips parted in a silent gasp, eyes growing wider.

She remembered the wolves from outside the castle during the curse – the wolves she’d thought were long gone by now.

It seemed she couldn’t have been more wrong.

_“Belle!”_

She was shaken from her reverie by a familiar voice. Adam had returned and rushed to her side, glaring at the stranger with concern as he put his arms around Belle protectively.

But even as he tried to draw her nearer she could barely look at him. She was still staring with shocked revelation.

“It’s her,” she stammered out. “She’s - look at her! Look at her face!”

Bemused he followed her instruction. She watched as the same realization struck home when he took in that scar.

He too had to recall that night in the frozen forest. That harrowing encounter: surrounded by a pack of hungry beasts determined against all reason to devour them.

“You,” Adam declared, staring with the heat of remembered danger even as he held Belle close. “Those eyes – I know those eyes. Never would I forget the eyes of a creature who tried so hard to kill me!”

The pack from the wood. The curse. A _loup-garou_. Now this group, moving with too great planning and intellect as they attacked them.

The pieces fell into place as Belle felt a sickening understanding. The enormity of it rose against her.

It seemed Adam felt the same way, for he seemed oddly resigned in terror as he continued to stare.

“They were never just normal wolves.”

“No,” the leader breathed. Spreading her arms, she sneered again with hatred. “An added layer to her curse, left by the Enchantress. Placed outside your castle, trapped in the form of wolves as the woods were trapped in winter. There to guard your grounds, and ensure save a rare few no one was able to enter or leave.”

Something about her voice made Belle shudder.

She was angry at having been imprisoned, there was no doubt. She could sense her great rage, that there was a goal to it, a purpose: a dangerous combination.

But more than that, it was the way she spoke. A growl rose beneath her words, hoarse and gravelly.

The more she talked, even with her rising intensity, the less she sounded human at all.

“But now the curse is broken, and we are free – free to take what is ours!”

Belle and Adam couldn’t look away as she stepped backward. As she leapt to the roof of one of the nearby buildings, crawling with inhuman agility until she perched on a ledge, the better to loom over her captive audience.

“The woods are _mine_ ,” she declared, feverish, baring teeth. “They belong to the wolves, by right! And the territory surrounding them will be ruled by _my pack_. We grow stronger by the day, by the passing of each full moon.”

She laughed, her voice rising to a maddened shout.

“Soon there will be no escaping us! Every human of these lands will submit in fear before us – or be made to join us; _or perish!_ ”

She threw her head back and howled – a triumphant, chilling, impossible sound. Despite her human form the howl sounded as deep and haunting as if it came from the throat of a wolf.

And it was a signal of some kind for as one the pack broke off what it was doing. They looped back, forming a line as they ran past the feet of their leader and out the still-opened gate.

The taunting sneer again on her face, she kept her gaze challengingly towards the Prince and Princess as she jumped. Seamlessly as she fell her body morphed back to that of the white wolf.

The creature didn’t hesitate as it joined the column made by the others, leading her pack away and out into the woods, where they soon vanished beneath the trees.

In their wake the castle was left quiet, the fire finally extinguished, survivors panting and looking around at one another in a loss. No one seemed to know what to say or do.

Sagging against her husband, Belle’s eyes fell to the bodies of the two men she’d watched murdered.

Not a single wolf had been injured, that she saw. But they’d left more than a few casualties behind.

She whipped her head around when she was startled by a pair of voices calling and running to one another in relief.

“LeFou! There you are!”

“Gaston! You-” The shorter man hesitated as they reached each other. He paled, slightly. “Um. Y-you missed a spot.”

He gestured lamely to his own face – there was still the trace of blood on Gaston’s cheek, near the edge of his mouth.

Gaston reacted with visible horror as he realized what LeFou was telling him, rubbing hard with the back of one hand.

LeFou grasped onto him by the elbows, seemingly trying to offer comfort.

The tableau became even more awkward as the four all became aware of one another. LeFou and Gaston stilled as they stared at the couple near them in consternation.

Belle didn’t have to look to see the heat to Adam’s glare – she could hear it.

“Monsieur LeFou,” he dripped in sarcasm, “thank you for warning us that there was an entire pack!”

LeFou gulped, chagrined. “I’m sorry. With everything going on, I…I forgot.”

Adam’s gaze fell next to Gaston: no hesitation, in his outrage, at confronting the man he’d last seen under such different circumstances.

“Did you have anything to do with this?” he demanded. “This attack?”

“What? No!” Shock and indignation rippled across his face. “I had _nothing_ to do with it!”

LeFou gripped his sleeves more tightly, so close he almost rested his face against the other’s chest. He looked stricken: torn between trying to calm Gaston or join in his defense.

Belle found herself uncharacteristically speechless. No, she realized – she was numb.

Up until now her anger, her apprehension had been so overpowering. Now it paled in comparison to what’d happened right before her eyes. She was barely certain yet what she had even witnessed.

 _A monster,_ a notion borne of instinct told her. _A threat_.

But could it be any surprise that whatever it was – it was still connected to Gaston?

Gaston looked from Adam to her; seeming as wary and uncertain what to make of her, now, as she was him.

But Adam was still in control. As Cogsworth approached with a phalanx of guards, he jerked one arm, impatient.

“Take him away!”

He didn’t need to be more specific. There was only one person there in chains.

The guards descended on the pair of men, grabbing Gaston by the arms, yanking the two apart. They reached to one another in what looked like reflex.

“Wait…” LeFou swallowed back his protest but still watched with anxiety, his eyes wide. His fingers outstretched to empty air.

Gaston struggled against the men holding him before he forcibly stopped himself, twisting to gaze in the direction of LeFou with a silent plea.

Belle could only watch - mute and fascinated witness; internally conflicted, not fully certain why - as the man who’d once done so much to threaten her was dragged powerlessly away.


End file.
